The Marching Band Refused to Yield
by escritoireazul
Summary: William McKinley High School has an award-winning marching band ... if only they can set aside their individual dramas junior year in order to keep winning.  Lauren/Puck, Tina/Mike, Blaine/Kurt, additional pairings to be revealed
1. Chapter 1: Burn this Town Down Tonight

Title: The Marching Band Refused to Yield  
>Author: escritoireazul<br>Written for: Lexie who loves marching band AUs.  
>CharactersPairings: Lauren Zizes, Tina Cohen-Chang, Mercedes Jones, Quinn Fabray, Kurt Hummel, Finn Hudson, Noah Puckerman, Blaine Anderson, Sam Evans, Santana Lopez, Brittany S. Pierce, Matt Rutherford, David, Wes, Will Schuester, Rachel Berry, Artie Abrams, Tina Cohen-Chang/Mike Chang, Lauren Zizes/Noah Puckerman, Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce  
>Author's note: This is a transformative work of fiction for the television show Glee. It is also an alternate universe in which they are all in marching band instead of glee club. I've played pretty fast with their ages, but most of the glee club members we know are juniors, except for Matt, a senior.<br>Rating: 16+

Summary: You'd think by now they would be prepared for how wild band camp gets, but Lauren Zizes didn't see these two weeks coming.

Chapter One: Burn this Town Down Tonight

_August_

By the time marching band camp actually kicks off in August before junior year, Lauren is ready for classes to start just so she'll get a goddamn break from the rest of the drumline. Not that she hates them or anything, but unlike all the other sections except color guard, drumline doesn't take the summer off. In June, they meet three times a week to practice. In July, four times a week. In August, they get two weeks off while the football players have their intensive camp, but then band camp begins. Anyone who's around is expected to meet up for impromptu practices during their break anyway.

(She complains as much as the rest of them, and she's sick of stinky boys and their stupid sometimes sexist bonding, but they're gonna take high honors this year or drop dead in the middle of their drum feature. They came in second last year, behind Carmel, and there is no way in hell they're letting that happen again.)

Marching band is serious business at McKinley. (Even after you graduate. When they lost to Carmel, her brother called and ranted for twenty minutes when he found out. Lauren sat there and took it. She was just a sophomore, the seniors hadn't listened to her ideas anyway, but she should have tried harder. She should have made sure the freshman and sophomores were better. If she was half the leader her brother had been, they would have won. He doesn't say any of that; she knows he's not thinking it either. But all four years he was on the line, even when he was a freshman, the drumline won high honors and now, his first year out, they haven't. She can't help but feel like the replacement Zizes, and a faulty one at that.) Maybe it's because they win competitions while the football team loses every game, but at McKinley, Friday night games are all about the halftime show and the band playing pep music in the stands.

Maybe that's gonna change. They've got a new football coach, some ringer from Missouri who's won championships at every school where she's ever coached. There was a big rumble when she got hired, because first thing she did was say that her football players couldn't also be in marching band. (Or play any other sports, but that part didn't cause the same uproar.) That didn't go over very well. Rumor has it, Mr. Schuester sweet talked her into changing her mind _and_ her practice schedule, but from what Lauren's seen of Coach Beiste, it's pretty doubtful that she fell for Mr. Schue's song and dance. In the end, she doesn't care why Coach Beiste changed her mind, she's just glad she did. Losing some of the football players wouldn't matter - whoever thought it was a good idea to give clumsy Hudson a sousaphone was an _idiot_ - but some of them, like Mike Chang in color guard and Sam Evans on saxophone, that would be a loss.

Still, there's an unexpected benefit to a tough new football coach, and that is this: all the football players have been running two-a-days for the past few weeks, so now under the hot August sun, the view is even more impressive when they strip off their shirts. Goddamn, Coach Beiste may just end up being her new hero for a couple reasons.

During their midmorning break the first day, Lauren slumps into the shade, wets her washcloth with cold water from her thermos, and places it along the back of her neck. Her hair's pulled back into two buns on the top of her head, tiny curls coming free along the nape of her neck, matted down with sweat.

The drumline and the color guard are always the last two sections off the field, not because they're the worst, but because it's a competition, sort of, who can be the toughest. Not necessarily between each other, but they definitely put the rest of the band in its place. They practice longer and harder and way more frequently. Even so, there's always room in the shade for them if they want it, and today Lauren absolutely does.

Tina leans her practice flag against the wall and slides down to sit next to Lauren. It's weird to see her without any make-up, even though she would have sweated it all off by now anyway. Her nails are intricately painted to make up for it, and her hair freshly dyed.

"So," Lauren says, dragging it out a little. Tina doesn't bite, just pushes her sunglasses up her nose and takes a drink of water.

Mike is standing by the bleachers, still in full sun. His shirt is off, and he kind of glistens a little, sweat and perfect fucking abs. _Thank you, Coach Beiste._He's watching them, spinning his wooden rifle mindlessly, whipping it around his hands with an ease that belies how difficult some of those moves actually are. The only reason Lauren knows they're hard is because of Tina.

He grins suddenly. Lauren glances over at Tina and sees her smiling, too. She arches an eyebrow and bumps her knee against Tina's thigh.

"Okay, spill, Cohen-Chang. You've been all giddy ever since you got back from camp, but you haven't said a word about it."

"I haven't seen you," Tina protests. "It's not my fault you left on vacation as soon as I got back."

"Whatever, you could have texted me, or emailed me, or called me."

"I wanted to tell you face to face." Tina tilts her head back against the wall, beaming at the sky. "It's just that amazing."

Lauren drops her voice into a hissed whisper. "You totally hooked up!"

Tina doesn't nod, but she does smile even bigger than before.

"_Damn._" Lauren gives Mike another look. He's talking to some of the freshmen now, his back to them - and what a back, goddamn, that boy is cut from all angles - but he keeps twisting a little, glancing toward them and away. "Damn. He's got it bad, too."

"Yeah?" Tina leans into her even though it's too hot to cuddle the way they will later in the season. "He's really nice. I mean, _really_, really nice. I kinda thought, you know, football player, he'll be just like the others, but no."

Lauren grabs her wrist and gives it a little squeeze. Tina looks so happy, she can't even be pissed that it took so long for her best friend to open up to her. She gets that sometimes, you need secrets.

There's movement off to the side, and Lauren has trained herself to notice whenever the drumline section leader gets up, because even though the drum majors are still standing together, talking to Mr. Schue, that doesn't matter for the drumline. As goes their section leader, so goes their world. Even if Matt, this year's section leader, is possibly the quietest, least full of himself drummer and football player and senior Lauren's ever met. He fucking knows his stuff, though, and so they follow him willingly. Sure enough, Matt gets up, picks up his snare drum, and settles the harness over his shoulders again.

"Damn it," Lauren mutters, but wipes her face with the washcloth - it's still halfway cool - takes a quick drink, and hauls herself to her feet, stretching her arms high overhead to work the tension out of her shoulders.

Tina's expression twists into a sneer. "Puckerman's watching you," she mutters. Lauren finishes her stretch, not bothering to check. She trusts Tina, and anyway, she doesn't care. (She viciously squashes that little part of her that does, the part that finds him hot as hell and wants to see if he's as good with his hands on a body as he is on a drum. Hooking up with him, beyond being a phenomenally stupid idea, would break the code.) "Why'd they let him out of juvie anyway?"

There's a lot of hate in Tina's voice, but sort of, Lauren can't blame her. It's not necessarily that Puckerman was in juvie, because Tina's not bothered by some rulebreaking. (Though possibly trying to steal an ATM goes too far.) It's the whole thing with knocking up Quinn and then doing stupid, stupid shit when Quinn decided not to keep the baby. It's not like anyone actually drew lines in the sand, but Quinn is their friend - hell, Quinn is living with Mercedes still, too angry at her parents to go home - and friendship trumps everything else. So Puckerman is the asshole who hurt their friend and went on a rampage after the baby was adopted that ended up with him in juvie.

(Sometimes, Lauren thinks that's not exactly fair. Yes, he went on a stupid rampage and ended up in juvie, and Tina can judge him for that if she wants. But even though she absolutely, without any wavering, believes that it was Quinn's choice whether to have an abortion or put the baby up for adoption or keep the baby, sometimes she feels a little sorry for Puckerman because it was his kid, too. She remembers when her brother's girlfriend had that pregnancy scare a couple years ago, and Billy was scared, because yeah, they were way too young, but kind of excited too. His _kid_, he said, and one night they snuck up onto the roof and sat eating ice cream together and he whispered a little about teaching the kid to play catch and ride a bike and climb up on the roof and fix cars, just like he'd taught Lauren. There ended up being no baby, and Billy laughed it off after with relief, but sometimes, when they're all so very carefully not talking about what happened between Quinn and Puckerman, Lauren can't help but think about that night on the roof.)

Tina and Mercedes and Lauren are Team Quinn all the way, and so it doesn't matter that occasionally Lauren sees Puckerman's side of it, or that she's thought him just about the hottest guy around since freshman year, or that sometimes he tries to talk to her before or after drumline sectionals and sometimes she wants to actually stop and listen to what he has to say. Quinn won't look at him, won't even say his name, and so he is totally off-limits.

Instead she shrugs at Tina. "See you at lunch." She doesn't even wait for confirmation, both because she knows they'll grab lunch together on break, they always do, and because she's a little afraid of what Tina might see in her face.

She picks up her quads and settles the harness over her shoulders, loving the weight of them pulling on her. Back at the end of eighth grade, she went with Billy to tryouts - as a senior coming back for his final year, it was very unlikely he wouldn't make the line - and even though she knew there was no way an incoming freshman would make quads, part of her hoped the entire trip to school that she would.

She didn't, but she wasn't stuck on cymbals, either. She made the bass line, the only freshman girl not on cymbals or in the pit. Probably Billy had a lot to do with that, because the other section leader was the kind of asshole who thought girls should play flute or, better yet, cheer from the sidelines, but she also played the hell out of her audition. Billy'd been on snare since his freshman year, one of the youngest to ever make the snare line, and he dragged her to the computer after the results were posted on the band's website, and hugged her hard before she was even really done reading her name.

(Puckerman was also on the bass line, the two of them the only freshman. These days, she tries really, really hard not to think about that stupid party after they won their first competition, or the way Puckerman looked a little like a puppy dog for a couple weeks when she flat out ignored him after the party.)

Matt taps his sticks against the rim, a sharp sound that brings them all together around him. From the corner of her eye, she can see the biggest bass drum edge up next to her, and she very carefully doesn't turn to look at Puckerman.

"Hey Zizes," he says, his voice low. "Congrats on making quads."

She clenches her hands around her sticks, but she can't ignore that, she just can't, not with his voice so quiet and not with her pride over finally, _finally_being where she belongs.

"Thanks." Her voice is short, but she lets herself look at him quickly. His shirt's off, and she's not really sure how the guys stand wearing the harness against their bare skin, but god, she's glad they do. He's kind of golden from all the sun, and there's this spot at his hip which cuts in so sharp she wants to bite it just to see what happens. She licks her lips without really thinking about it, and doesn't notice until she realizes he's staring at her mouth.

Fuck. She is so, so screwed.

"Line up," Matt says. His voice carries well, but maybe that's because he so rarely uses it they listen hard when he does. "We're running the new cadence."

Thank god for the excuse to move away from Puckerman. She joins the other quads and keeps her eyes resolutely on Matt, but she's having a little trouble breathing steady. She does not want to kiss him. She can't. Team Quinn, she reminds herself, and the friends code and-

Oh hell. She squeezes her sticks until her fingers ache, because she can't lie to herself anymore. She really, really does want to kiss Puckerman again. And now that she's admitted it, there's only one thing to do.

Stay the hell away from him for the next two years. Despite twelve hour marching band bootcamp and sectionals on the weekends and long trips to competitions and then concert band season and crap.

She is so, so screwed.

#

Drumline and color guard are the last two sections off the field for lunch break, too. Tina angles over the fifty yard line at a diagonal to catch up with Lauren, and together they cross the track surrounding the practice field and toward the shed where the drumline and the color guard locks up their equipment during lunch breaks.

Once Lauren sets her quads on their stand and Tina tucks her practice flag into the corner where she'll be able to grab it quickly, they head out, looking for the others. Only Mercedes is waiting for them in the parking lot, and the gravel crunches under their feet as they head toward her, already too tired to talk much.

Mercedes has her head down, looking at something on her phone, but when they reach her big SUV, she looks up and pulls a face. "Whoever decided band camp should be in August sucks. It's so fucking hot."

"Sing it," Tina says and slumps against the SUV on one side of her, Lauren on the other. "It's been a long summer."

"You gonna give us any details?" Lauren asks. She pulls off her sunglasses so she can swipe at her face with the edge of her t-shirt, then shoves them back into place, because it is way too bright to go without.

"Details about what?" Mercedes asks. She clicks something on her phone and shoves it into her pocket. "You'd better start talking."

"Over lunch," Tina promises. "Let's go to Sonic so no one can overhear us."

Lauren looks around for their missing friends. Quinn's with Wes and David, talking about whatever the hell drum majors talk about. She doesn't have a whole lot of respect for them. Quinn's her girl, and she's got her back, but all drum majors do is stand there and wave their arms. Everyone knows the drumline is the rhythm of the band, the sound that keeps everyone on beat.

Finally Quinn pulls herself away and heads toward them. She's actually wearing a shirt that covers the waistband of her pants, not the mid-drift baring tank tops she used to wear, and Lauren is suddenly struck by the way Quinn sort of frames her stomach with her arms, protecting herself even now.

She glances over at Mercedes and Tina quickly, not sure if she's actually seeing what she thinks she is. They're watching Quinn too, their expressions serious.

"Our poor girl," Mercedes says, her voice low, and then Quinn is close enough to hear them, so they don't say anything else about it.

"Where's Kurt?" Tina asks, shifting her weight. "I'm starving."

Mercedes rolls her eyes and jerks her hand toward the cluster of boys standing around on the track. Hudson's the tallest and he stands out, especially when he laughs long and loud at something someone else says, but she quickly picks out Kurt next to him.

"Brotherly bonding?" Tina asks. Kurt's dad married Finn's mom back in May, and it was an interesting part of summer, watching as the Hudmels (so named by Mercedes, whose love for portmanteaus has lead to stranger names) tried to become a family. Kurt still complains a lot about straight boys being gross, but mostly he seems pretty happy.

Mercedes laughs. "That's his cover. Really he's checking out the new boy."

"New boy?" Lauren squints, trying to pick him out. There's a couple freshman hanging around, looking way younger than everyone else, but then Hudson moves just right, and she gets an eyeful of some guy she doesn't know, his dark hair curly and his mouth turned up in a wide open grin. He's not a freshman, that's for damn sure. "Where'd he transfer from?"

"Dalton, that prep school down in Westerville," Quinn says, and they all turn to look at her sharply. This time last year, it wouldn't have been a surprise for her to have the best gossip already, but many things have changed. "Wes is friends with him."

"Wait, what? Wes has friends?" Mercedes teases, then raises her eyebrows. "And he just told you all about him?"

Quinn shrugs. "His name's Blaine."

"Oh!" Tina turns to look at him again and nods. "I thought he looked familiar. My parents know his parents. I've seen pictures of him at their house. The Asian community's pretty tight around here."

"So why'd he go to Dalton?" Lauren asks.

Mercedes snorts. "Why'd he _leave_ to come _here_?"

Tina shakes her head. "I've never met him, just his parents."

As one, they all turn to Quinn again. She's rubbing her stomach absentmindedly; when they look at her, she stops and shoves her hands in her pockets. "Wes didn't say. He was more interested in talking about all the instruments Blaine plays. There're a lot, apparently."

"Sounds like Wes has a bit of a crush."

"He's not the only one. Kurt took one look at him when we got here, said he was gay, and took off to see what else he could find out." Mercedes grins. "He'll be pissed you hit up an excellent resource before he did, Q."

Quinn bites her lower lip, but doesn't say anything else.

"Dude, he's taking forever." Lauren steps forward and cups her hands around her mouth. "Yo, Hummel, get your little woodwind ass in gear, we're headed out." He's not too far away to see his shoulders go tense or the serious _fuck off_ look he shoots her way.

Blaine says something to him that has Kurt turning around fast. Lauren slumps against the SUV again and tilts back her head, staring up at the sky. There are no clouds, just an unending expanse of blue and the searing sun.

She's got spots in her vision when she looks down again, and she blinks hard to clear them. That's when she catches Puck watching them. He's wearing sunglasses now too, but she's pretty sure he's not looking at her this time. Quinn's got one hand on her stomach again, and Lauren would bet a lot of money that his eyes are there.

And that's just another reason she needs to nip these stupid emotions right in the bud. What a freaking mess they all are.

Kurt finally joins them, but he's not alone. "This is Blaine," he says. "He's marching a bari sax, can you believe it? He's a junior too, a transfer." He spins through their names and sections fast.

Lauren squints at him, because damn, that's a heavy saxophone for marching, and he's pretty scrawny.

"Hi." Blaine's grin is friendly and easy despite the way they're all staring at him. He doesn't look too stressed to be the new guy, even though it has to be hard to change schools halfway through high school, to try to join a band made up of scared little freshman and groups of friends already firmly established. "Do you mind if I join you for lunch?"

They don't, of course, especially not when Kurt keeps looking at him with this hopeful, yearning look that he promptly hides about half a second after he does it. He even gives up the front seat to Lauren, which is just another sign of how bad he's got it already, because Mercedes is his girl and so he always gets shotgun.

(Sometimes Lauren wonders if Quinn ever feels left out. It's been Mercedes&Kurt and Lauren&Tina and just Quinn for as long as they've been friends, but Lauren doesn't know if Quinn's ever wished for a best friend of her own to round things out. As much as they're friends, Quinn is cool and unruffled and plays things close to her chest.)

In the backseat, Tina and Blaine talk a little about the people they both know while Kurt watches them just a little too close. Mercedes turns up the radio with a vicious twist of the knob. Her mouth is set in a thin line.

Oh, shit. Mercedes swore she was over her crush on Kurt, but then, Kurt hasn't looked at a guy the way he's looking at Blaine, not since that weird month when he was strangely fixated on Finn. (Thank god that ended. How weird would it be if they were hooking up and then their parents got married? She's read a lot of super hot fic about just that, but it doesn't hold the same appeal when one of the guys is her friend.) If Lauren were Tina, she'd reach over and hold Mercedes' hand and whisper something helpful and sweet and understanding, but she's not, so she crosses her arms over her chest and stares out the window.

Sometimes, she thinks she fails at being a friend.

#

They end up at Wendy's instead, because it has a salad Kurt will eat without _too_ much complaining, and the privacy of Sonic doesn't really matter now that Blaine's tagging along. They won't get the good gossip out of Tina with him around.

Blaine is nice enough, friendly, and he easily engages Kurt, Tina, and Mercedes in conversation. Quinn focuses hard on her fries, and Lauren doesn't talk to strangers, thank you very much. But she does listen.

"Did you march bari sax at your old school?" Kurt asks and takes a sip of his bottled water.

"We didn't have a marching band. I didn't think I would march here, but I wanted to play in concert band, and Mr. Schuester said I have to participate both semesters."

"Yeah, that's his way of making sure he doesn't lose half his musicians when marching band ends."

"Really? People would rather march than perform perfect arrangements in a concert hall?" Blaine looks honestly perplexed by this.

"You really haven't marched before, have you?" Mercedes rolls her eyes. "Boy, you are in for a whole new world."

"You like it that much?"

"You have no idea." Mercedes shares a little grin with Kurt.

"And it's adorable that you think McKinley is going to give you concert halls," Kurt adds. "More like gyms that still smell like sweat."

"Oh." Blaine slurps some soda, but when he's done drinking, he's smiling again. "Tell me, what's so wonderful about marching band?"

They all rush to tell him.

Kurt: Big, showy performances, and the cheers from the crowd.

Mercedes: The wail of that perfect trumpet solo, played by yours truly.

Kurt: Winning lots of trophies.

Quinn: Perfect formations on the field.

Tina: Spinning things.

(Lauren elbows her and mouths _hot dancers_. Tina grins and elbows her right back.)

Mercedes: That moment of anticipation right before our fearless leaders call us to attention and count off.

Tina: Dancing to pep band music in the stands.

Quinn: Cheering even though the football team sucks.

(She looks a little sad, and Lauren puts her hand on Quinn's wrist, a light, brief touch.)

Kurt: Designing the color guard uniforms.

Blaine looks at Lauren expectantly. She doesn't talk to strangers, and what she says is far too personal to give him, but she hears herself say it anyway, caught up in her friends' enthusiasm.

Lauren: Being the heartbeat of the band.

(It's true the drumline is the driving pulse of any marching band, but even as she says it, she realizes she's not just thinking about her role, or the drumline as a whole, but also of the deep bass of the biggest bass drum, echoing the steady beat of her heart. _Goddamnit_, she is so screwed.)

Then Mercedes does a little fist pump and shimmy in her chair. "Band parties and bus rides, baby."

Blaine shrugs and shakes his head a little.

"Oh, you are in for an experience," Kurt promises him, leaning closer. "Where else will you see heavy brass idiots fall all over themselves for a beer _and_ get the pleasure of doing shots with us?"

"Well if that's the draw," Blaine tips his head toward Kurt, "how can I resist?"

_Flirting?_ Tina mouths at Lauren, and Lauren shrugs. Mercedes, watching them, nods a little, trying not to draw attention to herself. Blaine and Kurt grin at each other just a little too long, and then Kurt looks away, flushing.

Mercedes is quick to cover for her boy. "Why'd you leave Dalton?" she asks.

Blaine straightens and shrugs, dragging three fries through ketchup. "Couldn't stand the uniform anymore." He laughs it off, but it's not really an answer. Mercedes and Tina exchange a look, and then Tina glances at Lauren, who gives the shallowest nod she can and catches Quinn's eyes. There's a story there, and they want to know what it is.

"Tell me about McKinley," Blaine says. "Is there a gay-straight alliance? I was in it at my old school, though only a couple of us were out. Or no, that leaves out lesbians." His nose crinkles a little with his frown. "What do you call it at a co-ed school? Gay-lesbian-straight alliance?" He takes a bite out of his burger, all noncha-fucking-lant, like he's got no idea what he just said.

And probably, he doesn't.

"Still leaves out a lot of sexualities," Tina says and grips her cup so tight the lid pops up on one side. Across the table, Kurt looks down at his salad. Lauren hooks her foot against Tina's ankle, tucking their legs together. "There's more than just gay, lesbian, and straight."

Blaine's eyes widen, and he chews quickly, swallowing a couple times. "I'm sorry," he says in a rush. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, well, no one ever does." She doesn't look pointedly at Kurt. She doesn't have to. The end of the school year party hangs over them, too much alcohol and Kurt's nasty little comment about bisexual just being a label people used until they were comfortable enough coming out. Tina, normally giddy and dancing when she drank, turned on him for saying something so stupid and told them all she liked girls just as much as guys, thank you very much. She sighs. "No way we'd be allowed to have a queer alliance at school."

"That sucks," Blaine says. He sets down his burger. "And I really am sorry."

Tina carefully presses down the lid to her cup and nods. "Okay." This time she does look at Kurt, staring hard until he meets her eyes. "It really is okay. We all say cruel stuff without thinking about it sometimes."

He gives a half-hearted smile, but the silence that follows is still awkward and uncomfortable. The skin on the back of Lauren's neck feels tight - or maybe that's sunburn, she really needs to reapply sunscreen more often - and no one really looks at each other.

Finally Quinn makes a show of glancing down at her watch. "Finish up," she says. "We need to head back soon."

"Yes, because God forbid our precious leader be late returning to her stepstool on the thirty yard line," Mercedes teases. Quinn sniffs and lifts her chin, looking every inch the ice queen she was this time last year, head cheerleader and first chair flutist and a shoe-in for Homecoming Princess and Valentine's Day Dance Sweetheart. Then she grins and tosses a fry at Mercedes.

"I do what it takes to keep the minions in line," she says, and then it's on.

Well, they won't be going back to Wendy's anytime soon after that food fight.

#

They're playing through a basic cadence for the fiftieth time while the band marches in one big block, working on perfecting their eight to five steps - even though the freshmen, and Blaine, she guesses, had fundamentals all last week, the rest of the band needs practice before they can start actually doing work - when Lauren realizes she's not really paying attention to what she's doing. She doesn't need to, she could play this pattern in her sleep, but that's not what gets to her.

What gets to her is how hard she's listening for the sound of Puck's drum. She knows the bass drum parts too, knows each beat that is his, and the fact that she's focusing on it, the fact that she freaking cares about which beat in each pattern is his, kills her.

#

The sun is setting when Mr. Schue finally calls an end to practice. Once Matt lets the line go, Lauren trudges with the others over to the equipment truck and puts away her quads. Even with a summer of practice, she's worn out, so tired she can feel it in her goddamn bones.

(Which is, she has to admit, pretty freaky. Bones aren't supposed to have feelings. And that sounds a lot like Brittany. She's spending way too much time with the color guard if B's in her head like that.)

She's looking around to see if any of her friends need a ride when Puckerman saunters over. He's between her and her car, so she stops and crosses her arms over her chest. No way in hell he's going to out stubborn her.

He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, all nonchalant and shit. "Bass line's headed to Nelson's. You should come."

She considers it before she can stop herself. Not to spend time with Puckerman, but she did spend two years marching a bass drum, and she likes the other guys on the line well enough. Nelson's place is pretty sweet, too. He's got the whole finished basement to himself, and it's full of games and speakers and racks of dvds. Hanging out with the guys, drinking beers and killing zombies sounds like a hell of a time.

Puckerman gives her a little grin, her insides twists, and she remembers it's a bad idea.

"Can't. I've already got plans." It's not a lie, either. She just doesn't elaborate on those plans, which involve the longest, hottest shower ever - though if Puckerman keeps looking at her like that, all hopeful and slightly smirking and just plain sexy as hell, she'll need a cold shower instead - and faceplanting on her bed for awhile.

His face falls, the smile gone, but then he shrugs. "Whatever. Later, Zizes."

No fucking way Puckerman gets upset at being shot down, but she can't shake the feeling that somehow she's hurt his feelings. She hooks one hand along the back of her neck, kneading her fingers into her skin. Shower, faceplant, and some really loud music. Maybe then she can ignore all these damn unwanted _feelings_.

#

The week drags on. They run fundamentals in a big basic block through Wednesday, and it's a hot, miserable mess. Lauren stops counting the number of times she wants to throw a drumstick at someone for messing up and making them start all over when she hits twenty.

(She only throws one once, and that's at Trent, who keeps tripping into her space. When he comes close to slamming their quads together, she gets out of the way fast and then throws one of her sticks at the back of his head. She has to run a lap around the field for that, carrying the biggest cymbals while she does because sometimes Mr. Schue is a sadist, but it's totally worth it. He doesn't get in her way again.)

Blaine joins them for lunch the second day, too, which means there's still no gossip from Tina. It's funny as hell when he tries to order a milkshake. Kurt curls his hand over Blaine's mouth to silence him and shakes his head. "You do not want to drink that much dairy and then march for another five hours," he promises. Blaine's eyes are wide, but his nod tight and controlled. He puts his hand on Kurt's wrist, and for a second they sit like that, looking at each other.

"My hero," Blaine says when Kurt finally pulls his hand away. He bats his eyelashes a little and drops his head onto Kurt's shoulder. "What other nasty marching band surprises will you rescue me from?"

_Definitely flirting_, Mercedes mouths behind their backs, and Lauren thinks she's right.

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday they run basic move after basic move all morning, but they're inside after lunch, for the hottest part of the day, and it's a welcome relief. The air conditioner in the band room works overtime trying to cool them down, and they're unpleasantly crowded - the band room isn't really built for the whole marching band, it's made for the two smaller ensembles they'll break into for concert season, one basic and one advanced - but it's nice to be out of the sun.

They sound like shit the first day, but the section leaders go to work, tuning and going over the same four bars fifty times and sometimes literally tapping the rhythm into their skin. Friday, they're starting to sound halfway decent, at least standing still with the music in front of them.

It all makes for a long, exhausting first week, but by the time rehearsal ends Friday night, their energy is starting to build again. Lauren can hear the whispers start as everyone packs up their equipment, and she gives it a couple hours - just long enough for everyone to grab dinner, shower, and put on something fun instead of the sloppy clothes they've been sweating in all day - before they're partying it up.

Lauren pushes her way out of the room and chills in the hallway, leaning against the lockers across the hall and enjoying the momentary solitude. Tina and Quinn find her there soon enough, followed by Mercedes, Kurt, and Blaine, and together they head for the parking lot.

"Where're we tonight?" Tina asks.

"David's hosting." Quinn tightens her ponytail, smoothing the little flyaways that have escaped near her ears.

"Sweet." Mercedes and Kurt flick their fingers together and smooth back their hair. It is pretty sweet, David has a killer set-up. He's got a sound system that would put some concerts to shame. They'll be plenty of alcohol, because someone always knows someone who can hook them up, and Lauren can't wait for that delicious, delicious burn.

"It's my turn to drive," Quinn adds. "Who needs a ride?" Lauren and Mercedes both jump on that offer, but Kurt and Blaine are riding with Finn - Mercedes and Quinn exchange tiny smiles at that - and Tina swings the hem of her skirt back and forth and says she's already got a ride.

She doesn't name names, but Lauren knows it's Mike, of course. From the looks on Mercedes' and Quinn's faces, they've figured out something's going on too. Oh, yeah, this party will be _fun_.

"We'll be there by eight," Quinn tells Lauren.

They start to split up, but Kurt stops them. "Ladies," he says, and then nods at Blaine, "poor, uneducated new boy, it is our first party as upperclassmen. Make me proud." His eyes narrow. "You'd better all look fierce."

Lauren rolls her eyes, but later, after her shower, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she stands in front of her closet for awhile, contemplating what will receive the Kurt stamp - or, okay, tiny nod and hair flick - of approval.

#

She ends up wearing a purple cotton skirt, black sparkly tank top, and black sandals. Kurt approves, though she knows it's simpler than he'd like. Whatever, she looks hot and feels comfortable, two very important things.

Lauren wanders the party, stopping to talk to a couple people here and there. She's having fun, but she feels restless, and even when she forces herself to sit down to a conversation, she makes an excuse to get up again quickly.

It means she's not paying much attention to who is around her when, because it keeps changing. That has to be how Puckerman sneaks up on her. Or not really sneaks, he's just suddenly there.

"Zizes." Puckerman's holding a big glass of something filled with alcohol - she can smell the bite of it rising from his drink and on his breath when he leans in close - but though his face is a little flushed and his eyes are bright, he's not slurring his words. "Why don't we ever hang out?"

She grips the neck of her beer bottle tight. "You know why," she snaps and looks around for Quinn; she can just make out her blonde hair shining under the dim lights in the area designated the dance floor. She sways her hips and does a quick little step, her movements smooth. Next to her, Sam Evans is awkward as he dances just a little too enthusiastically, but Quinn just laughs and grabs him and pulls him in close.

Puckerman's looking, too, and shaking his head. Of course he is, he doesn't want Quinn with anyone else. That makes Lauren's throat tight and her chest ache. She takes a long pull off her beer to cover it. Puckerman watches her do it, his eyes focused hard on where her lips wrap around the bottle.

What the fuck is wrong with him, mooning after Quinn one minute and checking her out the next? What a dick.

"Fuck you," she snaps and turns away. He grabs her, fingers warm and rough around her wrist, and that right there tells her he's drunker than she thought, because there's an unspoken rule between them: no touching.

"What'd I do?" He genuinely sounds confused and a little hurt, and he lets her go as soon as she snaps back around to face him.

She knows she shouldn't say what springs to mind first, because the last thing anyone needs is for Puckerman to go pick a fight with Sam or, worse, for Quinn to turn on him, icing him out with all her rage, but she says it before she's done with that realization, her brain slowed and her tongue loosened by the booze.

"If you want to dance with Quinn, go dance with her!" There's a heat building inside, and she clenches her hand around her beer bottle. For a second, she thinks she's about to throw it at him, or maybe just the last of her beer, but that would be a hell of a party foul.

"The fuck are you talking about?"

She's has no idea. All she knows is how much she hates that bitter rise of jealousy, because goddamn it, Quinn is her _friend_. It's not an emotion she deals with well. Nor is the odd fondness she feels for Puckerman.

What she understands is anger, and she knows exactly how to turn any other emotion into it.

"You really want to talk about why we don't hang out?" She narrows her eyes at him and plants her hands on her hips, one of them pressing her beer bottle against her. "Because it seems like no one ever mentions the fact that you knocked up your best-friend's girlfriend and-"

"Don't." His voice is harsh, his eyes a little too wide. He's doing that posturing thing he does - mostly unconsciously, or so she's always thought - with his shoulders forward and chest pushed out. He clenches one hand around his glass over and over, the other fisted at his side, and if he swings, oh god, if he swings she will put him into the wall.

(She's not even sure how much of this is her raring for a fight and how much is wanting to kiss him, to touch him, to _fuck_ him. She likes it rough, likes to be rough, and she's crossing lines here she didn't even realize she was close enough to see.)

"No? But I thought you wanted to talk." Lauren sneers at him and opens her mouth to really drive it home, to land the verbal punch that's going to knock the wind out of him - and is probably a little below the belt, but she ignores that - but then Puckerman's jaw twitches.

"Don't," he says again, and then, quieter still, "fucking please don't."

All the anger rushes out of her, and she just feels guilty for kicking him while he's down. Not that he was actually down, not literally and not figuratively, but she knows that's his weak spot and she aimed right for it. She can call him an asshole all she wants, but she's just as fucking bad.

They stand there a moment, staring and silent, and then Lauren grimaces. "Sorry," she mutters, and she is, but god, she hates saying it, hates admitting she might have been wrong about something. "That was shitty."

She doesn't know what else to say, and she hates feeling like that, unbalanced and unsure, so for once, instead of pushing through it no matter what, she turns and walks away.

#

The party is so loud, so unbelievably loud. The music sounds like it's jacked up another ten decibels every time she breathes in, and she's sure everyone is screaming their conversations at the top of their lungs.

Lauren grabs a bottle of water and escapes into the backyard. The party's there too, but there's a lot more space, and it's nice and dark and cool. She grabs herself a seat on the low stone wall that lines one of the big flower beds in the corner and lets her shoulders slump.

No way she's still feeling guilty over Puckerman. There's just no fucking way.

Even as she tries not to think about that, she looks up and he's walking toward her. Or maybe just walking to the corner. It doesn't really matter, because the end result is the same. She braces herself for more awkwardness, sitting up and straightening her shoulders, but he just sits down next to her, a crumbled pack of cigarettes in one hand.

Neither of them says anything as he thumbs one out and pulls his lighter from his pocket, but it's an easy silence. Lauren sips her water. Puckerman lights his cigarette. Elsewhere, people are loud and handsy and drunk and dancing, but their corner is almost peaceful. Not exactly what she expects from Puckerman.

He takes a long drag and blows out a slow, steady stream of smoke. It's a clove, she can smell that much, but there's something weird about it. She sniffs again, harder, trying to figure it out, but she can't.

"What the hell are you smoking?" When she realizes what she's said, she laughs so hard for a second she can't breathe. Oh yeah, still drunk. Puckerman grins and takes another drag, waiting for her to finish.

"Menthol cloves."

Lauren squints at him. "I can't decide if that's amazing or horrifying," she says at last.

He shrugs and slips another one out of the pack, holding it out to her. "Try one."

She takes it and reaches for his lighter next, but he hangs on to it and thumbs it to life. It's bright after the shadows around them, and for a second, she's distracted by the way his face looks highlighted by the flame. Then she tilts forward a little and lights the cigarette, her eyes on him the whole time.

It's not her first time smoking, and she really is leery about the mix of menthol and clove, so she only inhales a little bit at first. But it's good, different; it's mostly like a clove, but then her mouth starts to burn a little. She presses one finger to her lips, poking at them. Yeah, they're definitely tingling.

"Dude," she says, and then, because talking feels weird, she says it again, dragging it out. "Dude, that's awesome."

"Hard to find but worth it," he agrees. He shifts around a little, and when he's done, he's sitting closer to her. She doesn't scoot away. "How's your brother?"

"He's good." She tilts her head to the side, staring up at the sky, blowing smoke above their heads. "He'll be back stateside in a couple months. He doesn't know where he'll be stationed here, but it'll be closer to home, so we don't really care."

"Cool. We should hang when he's in town."

Lauren nods, a little jerkily, and focuses on her cigarette. She can hear the crackle of the paper as it burns on down. Puckerman shifts again, flicking ash onto the ground, and his leg bumps against hers.

This is how it started freshman year, too, cigarettes and beer and line camaraderie. Lauren considers walking away, but she likes it here, in the silence and the shadows, smoke and secrets curling around them.

#

It should be impossible, but the second week of band camp is even hotter and sunnier than the first week. They slather on sunscreen before practice and during breaks, but still they burn. They drink lots of water, but still people start dropping, turning pale and shaky and having to sit out for awhile. It's a mess, and it's hard work, and it's horrible, but it's wonderful at the same time, because it's marching band.

#

Tuesday afternoon, something finally clicks.

It's just like any other day, hot and muggy and bright; sweat drips down their faces and makes their shirts cling. They've warmed up musically and warmed up physically and moved back and forth between one mark and the next, then that mark and the one after, and then back to the beginning, over and over and over, singing their parts with each move, until Lauren is pretty sure that if she ever hears a couple particular bars from "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)" again, she's going to break someone.

"Okay," Mr. Schue calls from his position on the high stand that gives him a good angle from above. "Let's try running it with music from the beginning."

They go back to the first page of drill, closing their drill books and readying their instruments. Lauren brushes her fingers against the edge of her harness, offering herself luck.

Wes is on the fifty yard line. He glares at them, from one side of the field to the other, and then calls them to attention and brings their horns up. That's not when that illusive something finally clicks, but it happens sometime between everyone snapping their instruments into place and the moment Wes' voice rings out again, "Mark time mark."

They mark off four beats, left right left right, step off with the left, and suddenly they're all motion and all sound. Wes directs them with sharp perfection, hands slicing through the air to hit each spot exactly in the four-four pattern. On their respective thirty yard lines, David and Quinn match his movements, their heads turned toward him so they are all perfectly together.

The horns are solid, rising high over everyone else, a full bright sound that makes Lauren glad she's moving because oh, she wants to dance. She doesn't have to look to know where the other quads are or that their sticks rise and fall with a beautiful, blurring precision, and she can feel the line as they move through the drill, surrounding her, ever present and exactly what she wants.

They're nowhere near competition ready and still far from perfect. Some of their diagonals are more like curving lines and a couple freshmen get off step. Towards the end, one of the trumpets comes in three beats early, breaking out clear and loud over the woodwinds. But through it all rises the driving beat of the drumline and when they hit their final mark just as the last notes wail out, they're not this collection of sections anymore, they're one big, bold band.

They hold attention, instruments up, eyes on Wes. His hands are clenched so tight into fists it looks like it hurts, and his chin is up, his expression unreadable. There's a squirming, quivering tension inside Lauren, but she's in the zone - they're all there, one band, one sound, one focus - and she could hold attention forever if she had to.

"Band, horns down," Wes bellows. Almost before they're done, the light glancing off bright instruments, he's calling them to parade rest. This is the moment when anticipation can be too much, her head down, eyes on the ground, waiting for the call that will bring them to life.

Instead, Mr. Schue starts clapping. "Great job, you guys." He's laughing a little, and his voice lifts with excitement. "Let's run it again, and then we'll take a water break. Back to your opening spots."

It's only band camp and they've got a lot of work to do and they haven't even started learning the drill for the other three songs, but god, it feels good to be a band again.

#

They do so well Mr. Schue lets them leave an hour early. (Well, he says it's because they do such a good job, but Quinn snorts and mutters to them that the Spanish teacher, Ms. Holliday, is back from her summer in Europe, and he just wants to go get laid. Which, eww, and she sounds so much like Santana, Lauren can guess where that gossip came from. Still, Santana usually knows her shit.)

Once she's taken care of her instrument, Lauren heads over to where Tina and Mercedes chat with Brittany. Brittany is a cheerleader, and used to only be a cheerleader, until Tina recruited her into guard last year from their dance class. Though some of the football players have always been in marching band, the cheerleaders - except for Quinn - really haven't been, though now Santana's joined Brittany in guard. (Sometimes, Lauren thinks Santana would be better suited to the line, but there's no way Lauren wants to have her that close.) While she talks, Brittany is stretching, and more than a few of the guys end up stumbling on the gravel because he's staring too hard at her ass when she bends over or her breasts when she pushes her hands high overhead. For her part, Brittany doesn't pay them any attention and just laughs at something Tina says.

Before Lauren reaches them, she hears Matt calling the drumline. His voice is pretty quiet compared to everyone else, but one part of her is always listening hard for him, so she spins around and backtracks to where he's gathering everyone, including the pit, behind the equipment truck.

"Line bonding time," he says. "Load up and follow me."

There's a quick scramble into cars after that, everyone piling in so they don't have to take too many. Lauren's got a few freshmen for her car already when Puckerman struts up, grinning at the three pit girls. They giggle a little and blush and two of them look down at their feet.

"Girls, you don't mind squeezing together in back, do you?" he asks, turning the full force of his smirk on the one who actually looks at him straight on, at least for a moment. Lauren tries not to roll her eyes, but she doesn't try very hard.

She pins him with a glare over the top of her car. "What are you doing?" she asks, voice flat.

"Saving the environment. One less car on the road is good for everyone." He arches his eyebrows at her, the corner of his mouth turning up even higher, and she ducks into her seat fast so he won't see her smile.

#

Line bonding ends up being out at Matt's favorite swimming hole. Probably she should have seen that coming, because they usually make it out a couple times during the summer, but this year they've been so focused on winning - the stench of last year's defeat lingers - that they haven't.

(Plus she spends the entire drive fighting with Puck over the radio. First thing he does is unplug her iPod, which gets him hit. Then he changes stations, which gets him hit. Then he stops her when she's about to flip off a classic rock station - and she likes classic rock, but there's no way in hell she's letting him control the music - grabbing her wrist and smirking, because apparently, he likes the song. His palm is hot against her skin, and he holds on too long. That gets him hit, too, but it also leaves her tense and distracted.)

The trio of freshmen climb out of the backseat when they arrive, their eyes wide. The cars are pulled up in a half circle, and before them through a break in the trees stretches out a big lake, the water deeply, beautifully blue.

They made one stop on the way, to grab snacks and drinks, and everyone hauls their bags down to the water's edge. Matt pulls a pile of blankets and towels out of his trunk; they collect good sized rocks to hold down the edges of the blankets, and everyone claims a towel.

Lauren's hungry and thirsty, but she's also sweaty and hot, and the water looks amazing. She's wearing army green shorts and an orange tank top over a sports bra, and though she wishes for her bathing suit, she'll make what she's wearing work. She toes off her sneakers, peels off her socks, and drops her keys, sunglasses, and wallet next to the pile.

Trent, Thad, and Julie, the other quads, dump their stuff near her. Puckerman does too, which means the bass line sticks close. Not as close as Puckerman though, who is practically on top of her when he peels off his shirt. She'll admit the view's not bad at all, and maybe they're sort of on their way to being friends again, but watching him strip - watching the play of muscles under skin and the glint of piercings at his nipples - is doing really wicked things to her.

She presses her lips together in a thin line and shakes her head at him. He's watching her, trying and failing to be subtle about it, so she tries to keep her expression neutral. That gets harder still when he unhooks the chain that links his wallet to one belt loop and lets it pool through his fingers as he drops it onto the ground. All she can picture is it wrapped around his wrists, twisted up his arms, and how pretty he'd look while he begged and oh, god, she is _not_having these thoughts about him.

Now she really needs to fucking cool off. There's already a line of drummers waiting to grab the rope swing, but Lauren bypasses them and heads straight into the water, careful to stay away from the spot they land. She jerks a little when she steps into the water - it's cold as fuck - but forces herself deeper, until it hits her thighs, her hips, her stomach.

It's better to get it over with fast, and Lauren ducks under, biting down on the gasp that wants to escape. She holds her breath as long as she can, until her lungs burn and her jaw aches, and then pops to the surface. When she comes up, she wipes water out of her eyes, careful not to dislodge her contacts, and looks around.

Some of the freshmen still linger on shore, but everyone else is either in the water or waiting to grab the rope and swing out into the water. She loses track of Puckerman for awhile, which is fine. Julie starts a splash war that turns into dunking when Trent loses; Lauren and Julie team up to school all the snares, even Matt, when they try to come in swinging. Eventually the entire drumline is in the water, soaked and shrieking with laughter, the sweat and their stress washed away.

Finally, stomach grumbling and mouth dry, Lauren forces herself out of the lake. She wrings water from her hair and the bottom of her shirt before she makes her way over to her towel and the bag of goodies waiting for her on the blanket she claimed. She dries herself off fast and sits down. There's a bit of a breeze, and it's actually a little chilly after the water. Chilly enough her nipples are hard, and sports bra or not, with a wet shirt clinging to her, you can tell.

She could cover herself with the towel, but she's never been one to hide her body, so she drops it next to her and grabs a bottle of water from her bag. More people are leaving the water to grab drinks. Some sit down, others head right back in. She leans back on her arms and closes her eyes, enjoying the moment. Damn good idea, Matt. She should probably tell him so.

After awhile, a shadow falls over her face, blocking enough sun she can tell even with her eyes closed. When she looks, sure enough, it's Puckerman, rubbing a towel over his mohawk while water drips down his chest.

That is a very good look for him. She's so comfortable and content that she doesn't roll her eyes or smart off; instead, she watches him close enough to catch individual rivulets of water working their way down his stomach and the way his shorts drip water onto his feet.

She knows the exact moment he realizes she's looking at him, the moment he notices whatever must be showing in her eyes, because he drops the hand holding the towel to his side and watches her right back, his eyes hooded and dark.

"Want something?" she asks at last, bumping the bag with her knee even though she knows full well he grabbed food and drink from the gas station too.

"Yeah." His voice is low and warm and though she already had a sharp retort ready if he said something about hooking up, when he says it like that, so simple and yet so effective, she doesn't want to say anything at all.

Lauren's proud of the fact that no matter how much he's twisting her up inside, she doesn't look away.

"Sit," she orders, and he drops down next to her. They drink sodas and split a bag of chips, and she pretends she doesn't notice how his eyes linger when she licks salt from her fingers.

Almost everyone is back in the water - Lauren knows this because they're both staring out across the lake, not looking at each other anymore - when Puck says, his voice pitched so soft she can barely hear him, "I didn't mean to knock up Quinn."

"I know." She wants to put her arm around him, pull his head down to her shoulder, kiss his forehead and hug him close. Instead she tucks her hands under her thighs and glares at the water, angry at herself. She's not sure why she's mad anymore, not sure whether it's because she wants to comfort him or because she won't let herself.

"I didn't mean to keep fucking shit up either." He runs one hand over his hair. "Juvie sucked."

"Yeah?" She's heard the stories, big bad Puckerman knocking heads together and coming out an even bigger badass than he went in, but she also knows how stories about badasses tend to snowball. Do one little thing - for example, kick Ben Israel's smarmy little ass for being a disgusting waste of space, and that's literally kick his ass, one kick, just hard enough to interrupt his smarm and put him into the locker - and suddenly you've beat him half to death, sucked out all his blood, and revived him as a zombie, which doesn't even make any sense. So, yeah, she doesn't believe most of what she hears.

"Like really sucked. They tore out one of my nipple rings." She can't help it, she turns to look, because he certainly had them both in earlier. There are two, but he catches her looking. "Got it redone. Thought maybe-" He cuts off whatever he was going to say, and stares back across the water. "They were fucking scary, and I wasn't nearly as badass."

"You're badass enough," she says, because it's true. He's been walking that line between tough guy and bully for awhile now, ever since he got Quinn pregnant, whereas before he was mostly just bully. If he was any more badass, he'd topple back across that line again.

He shrugs and they're quiet again for a bit. "I don't want Quinn to hate me," he says at last. "I don't want you to hate me either." It's her turn to look away. The mood is shifting; the sun's getting lower in the sky and more and more of the line is leaving the water.

She waits too long to answer, there are too many people around them, and Puckerman won't quite meet her eye while they gather everything up. He rides back with her, though, she thinks mostly because she shoves her keys at him and tells him to go start the car for her and take the freshmen with him while she helps Matt load up the blankets.

#

Lauren might have missed her moment, but she's a pretty quick thinker. The freshmen can't drive, so she offers them rides home, and drops them off first, Puckerman stuck in the car. Once they're alone, she heads back to the practice field and his truck. He opens the door fast when she pulls up next to it - it's the last vehicle in the lot - but she grabs his arm and looks at him, because if she's actually going to say this, she's going to do it right.

"I don't hate you, Puckerman. And I don't think Quinn does either."

He looks down at where her fingers are wrapped around him, and when he speaks, it's more a sigh than a word. "Thanks."

#

The rest of the week passes in practice and plotting and singing their parts and sometimes putting it all together and lunches with her friends - which has included Blaine every single day, but Kurt looks so happy, so damn smitten, that Lauren can't even really hate someone intruding on their time together - and sometimes even short conversations with Puckerman.

She's also picked up the trio of freshmen who start following her around: Cindy on marimba, Dana on xylophone, and Erin on timpani. Dana's the most forward, the ringleader, but all three laugh a lot and bring Lauren water without her asking and during one break, they start asking for advice on how to make it onto the line. She grins at them and talks about practice and strength and confidence and some of what they'll face when trying for a section that is predominantly guys. Not so much from their line, at least not under Matt, but she hears a lot of trash talking at competitions. (She doesn't tell them about kicking other line's asses, not yet. They'll see for themselves.)

It's hard work, and she's tired all the time, but Friday comes faster than she can believe and suddenly band camp is over. School starts Tuesday, after one last long weekend, and the band is buzzing because Matt's parents are out of town. That has to be on purpose, surely they know their senior son is going to throw an end-of-band-camp/end-of-summer party the second they hit city limits.

So Matt's hosting the end-of-band-camp party. The sky is gloomy all afternoon, a late summer storm threatening, but it's not raining when they're dismissed. Matt's party is starting earlier than last time, and it's Lauren's turn to drive, so she rushes home to shower and change into a jean skirt, her favorite orange and pink Chucks and a flippy, flirty red cotton shirt. She's not _planning_ on doing much flirting, honestly, but after Tina does her make-up when she picks her up and Quinn slips jewelry on her when she picks _her_ up, Mercedes pronouncing them all gorgeous, well, there's energy buzzing in her veins.

The end of band camp marks the end of a long, hot summer full of hard work and tension. The end-of-band-camp party marks the beginning of a long fall full of hard work and competitions and random band hook-ups at games and on busses. It's that weird, twisty time between summer and fall, between freedom and school, and anything goes.

#

Even rushing, the party is in full swing by the time they arrive. They stick together at first, getting the lay of Matt's house - Lauren's the only one who's been there enough to know where everything is - and grabbing drinks, but eventually, they start splitting up. Kurt, Blaine, and Mercedes cut away to dance, and Mike and Tina find each other and start flirting. Quinn and Lauren chill on one of the couches for awhile, talking to some of the flute section, but eventually Lauren gets tired of the crowd and excuses herself to get a new drink. She does need one, but after she has it, she heads into the backyard.

The sky is black, not just nighttime dark, but heavy with clouds, the moon and stars gone. The air is muggy, hot and wet, but it's still not raining. Despite the oppressive weather, plenty of people are outside playing beer pong, including Puckerman, but when he sees her, he hands his paddle to Hudson and cuts away from the crowd.

"Want a smoke?" he asks. She shrugs, but together they walk farther into the yard. There's a yellow bug light on above the back door, but over by the big garage at the end of the wide driveway that curves around the house, the yard is darker. Puck hands over a cigarette and lights it for her again, and she concentrates on not coughing when it hits her throat.

They're about halfway through their cigarettes when a cool, fast wind cuts across them. A second later, there's a crack of lightning and a roll of thunder so deep Lauren can feel it vibrate. Before she can do anything else, the sky opens up and they're pelted with rain, her cigarette hissing out in her hand.

She's torn for a second, part of her wanting to run across the yard and into the house, following the beer pong players who have left their cups of beer behind and are shoving their way through the back door, but another part of her wants to stay right where she is, alone with Puckerman and away from the crowd.

Puckerman grabs her arm and tugs her a little toward the garage. It's unlocked, apparently, because he's got the side door open. She doesn't hesitate, just steps inside, and he pulls the door mostly shut behind them, leaving it open just a crack so that cool air follows them in.

Lauren blinks water from her eyelashes. It's too dark to really see, but after a few seconds, her vision adjusts enough that she can make out gray shapes in the blackness. She doesn't need to see to know where Puckerman is, because she can feel him standing right next to her. Her damp clothes leave her feeling steamy in the enclosed space.

Another crack of lightning, followed immediately by the rumble of thunder. The storm is moving fast and it's right on top of them already. The sound of the rain on the roof is loud, overwhelming, and Lauren is having trouble breathing steady. Or maybe that's because Puck is so close, and when he turns toward her, he's closer still.

"Freshman year," she says, because it's been eating at her, and because if she doesn't talk she's going to do something stupid like kiss him, "I was kind of a shit. Sorry."

"You were," he agrees. He's not that much taller than her, but he tips his head toward her a little and it sort of feels like he's looming. In a good way. "Why?"

She shrugs and shifts her weight, which is kinda a bad idea because now, with the way she's turned toward him, her breasts brush against his arm and this is not what she intended when she got ready for tonight. Except that's as much a lie as it is a truth.

Instead of opening up and admitting her fears back then, she puts her hand on his chest. She tells herself she's going to push him away, but that's pretty much impossible with the way she curls her fingers into the fabric. He's just wearing a worn blue t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders nicely and is so soft to the touch, but it looks fucking awesome on him.

Lauren tugs him closer, and even as she lifts her head to kiss him, he makes this shocked sound, his mouth slack against hers for the split second it takes him to catch up, and then he's kissing her back. He is _so_ much better at this than he was back then. The first time they kissed, he was too wet, too sloppy and their teeth clashed together. Plus he'd had no idea how to follow anyone else's lead.

Now, though, oh god, he puts his hands on her hips and angles their bodies together, his lips pliant, his tongue curling delightfully into her mouth. She presses into him, deepens the kiss, and he goes with it, letting her set the pressure and the pace. She keeps one hand fisted in his shirt and curls the other around the back of his neck, urging him closer, closer. He slides his hands to her ass and tugs her against him, one of her legs between his, and oh god, she can feel him already hard against her thigh.

She bites his lower lip - he grinds against her, groaning - then sucks his lower lip into her mouth to sooth away the sting with her tongue. Lauren kisses him until she's dizzy from it, until she can't even sneak little breaths and has to pull away, glancing one final kiss off his mouth.

They're both breathing hard. Lightning cracks across the sky again, and the garage is momentarily lit up. Puck's lips are slick and very red from their kisses and her lipstick, and her skin feels a little sore from the scratch of his stubble.

She thinks she should say something, but she doesn't know what she can that won't make this awkward. Puck's eyes drop to her mouth when she licks her lips, but he meets her gaze directly when he very slowly and very deliberately grinds against her thigh.

_Holy hell._

Lauren's hands clutch at him, and she tugs on his shirt and digs her nails into the back of his neck. His eyes close for a second, but that's all the time she needs to gather herself. She is not going to fuck him in Mr. Rutherford's garage, but she's not ready to stop this yet, either.

She tugs him toward her and they stumble across the empty space where one of the cars would be parked until they're up against the big SUV Matt drives to band practice. That's a little weird, hooking up against her captain's vehicle, but then Puck ducks his head and starts kissing down the side of her throat and she really, really doesn't care anymore.

He slides one hand around her hip and rubs it up and down her side, coming close to her breast but never quite getting there. She grabs his wrist, and he freezes, his mouth against her neck, but that's not what she wants.

"You're good," she murmurs, and immediately after, she wishes she'd chosen a different way to say it. Too late now, and she does what she was going to do before he stopped and moves his hand to her breast. She can feel him suck in a sharp breath of air, and then his head comes up and they're kissing again, harder now, teeth sharp on lips, and his fingers stroke along her breast, his thumb unerringly finding her nipple.

She releases his shirt, her fingers slightly cramped from holding it so tight, and reaches down between their bodies, sliding her palm over the hard rise of his dick. His jeans are rough as she traces him with her fingers.

Puckerman groans into the kiss, and she grins, riding the power that rushes through her. She reaches for his belt next, fumbling it a little, but gets it open at last, then starts on the button fly.

The third button sticks. "Damn it," she mutters, her mouth still touching his, and when he laughs, their bodies move together. He drops his hands and helps her, working the last two buttons free.

She pushes him out of the way and reaches for him, sliding her hand down his stomach, working her way beneath his briefs, and wraps her fingers around his dick. He shudders, his head falling back, and she smirks at him, smug though he can't see it.

He's hot and hard, and she can feel him pulse against her palm. She strokes him lightly, sliding the wetness at the tip down the soft skin, and he lifts his hips toward her. A couple faster strokes, a slightly tighter grip, and he comes up off the SUV, groaning.

She places her other hand in the center of his chest, pushing him back, holding him in place. He reaches for her again, slides one hand under her shirt, under her bra, rubbing his palm over her nipple.

They kiss again, sloppier, but it's okay, because it all feels so good. Lauren runs her thumb over the head of his dick with every upward stroke, and he grabs at her, his fingers clutching so tight she can feel the bruises form.

Her muscles start to burn, but she keeps at the steady pace, working him and working him. Puckerman kisses along her jaw and down to her throat, his teeth scraping her skin again and again while he sucks heat to the surface.

Just when she doesn't think she can do it anymore, the angle is wrong and her arm fucking hurts, his body goes tight. "Fuck," he groans, burying his face in her hair. "Oh fuck, Lauren."

The sound of him saying her name like that, guttural and so needy, slams into her like a punch, but he's coming sticky and hot all over her hand.

Her neck burns where he left his mark, and shit, she's going to have to figure out how to cover that or face a whole lot of questions she doesn't want. And Quinn is like a fucking magnet for hickeys, she always notices.

_Quinn._

Lauren feels a little sick suddenly, her hand still on Puckerman's dick, his head on her shoulder, her lips sore from kissing him. Quinn is her friend, Quinn is important to her, and yet still here she is.

"That was - fuck. So good." Puckerman presses a kiss against the side of her neck. She tenses and slides her hand out of his jeans. She steps away from him under the pretense of looking for something to use to clean up and tries to calm her racing heart.

She stumbles her way over to a work bench. It's very neatly organized, and on it is a box of cleaning supplies, including a roll of paper towels. She tears off a couple, wipes her hands clean, and thinks better of tossing them into the trashcan, instead shoving them into her pocket, even if it's a little gross. She grabs a couple more paper towels and takes them to Puckerman.

He's still slumped against the SUV, but he gives her a slow grin when she walks up. It's lighter in the garage, and she glances at the windows. Sure enough, the rain has slowed, it is just spitting against the glass, and the clouds are starting to roll away. She can see the moon and a handful of stars.

Puck finishes doing up his jeans and belt and moves closer to her. "Come here," he says, taking her hand. "Your turn." His smirk is slow, his eyes warm, and she gets it, she does, all those songs about dancing with the devil.

But all she can think about now is how Quinn looked when she admitted she was pregnant, and how she sounded when she broke down in July after too many shots at Santana's Fourth of July party. The way Mercedes talked about the birth, Quinn's pain and the look on Puck's face when they put Beth in Quinn's arms. Mercedes' voice shook and she sat nestled between Tina and Kurt, holding their hands, Lauren bringing them drink after drink. Quinn was still in the hospital that first night, and they sat together in the waiting room.

All the reasons she should stay away, and yet how she felt, her heart so tight, when he said her name.

Lauren pulls her hand free, grabs his shirt, and hauls him in for another kiss, bruising and fast. Then, even though she knows it's a mistake, but what's one more after all she's done tonight, she shoves him back and spills out of the garage, hurrying toward the house and ignoring the way he calls after her, a sharp, "What the fuck, Zizes?" and nothing at all like how she wants him to sound.

#

No way in hell Lauren fucking Zizes hides from anyone, but she does make herself scarce until the others are ready to go. Tina and Mercedes are giggling and drunk, hanging all over her, talking about how much fun they had. Quinn's closer to sober than they are, and she hands Tina off to her at least until they get to the car. They're all sleeping over at Mercedes' house, and somehow they manage to get inside and upstairs without her parents noticing.

Lauren keeps her hair down, tries to make sure it spills over her shoulders all night, and the others don't notice anything, thank god.

#

Late Saturday morning, when Tina's finally dragged herself out of bed and they're sitting around Mercedes' room eating bagels and drinking orange juice, Quinn raises an impeccably groomed eyebrow at Lauren.

"Who gave you the hickey?" she asks, and it takes everything Lauren has not to slap her hand over it.

"No one," she grits out, but of course, her girls aren't going to accept that for an answer. They might let her get away with her secret for awhile, but eventually they'll push back and she'll have to give them some sort of an answer. For now, though, she turns it on Tina. "Where'd your bra disappear to last night?"

Mercedes whoops a laugh, and Tina beams. "Only the hottest guard boy ever." She fans herself a little. "Those abs of his, delicious."

They gossip and laugh and eat, sprawl in the backyard to enjoy time in the sun that doesn't involve marching and music, then come inside to watch movies and eat and gossip some more. It's fun, it's wonderful, Lauren loves spending time with her friends, but every time Quinn looks at her, it feels like she's being laid open, all her secrets bared.

#

Sunday, they finally go back-to-school shopping, two car loads of people because even Hudson comes with Kurt. He's got a weird look on his face when he sees Lauren, something halfway between a pout and a frown, but then again he pretty much always looks constipated.

#

Monday she hangs out with her parents, and Billy calls them via Skype to wish her good luck with the marching season. She wants to break down and tell him everything, but one, her parents are there listening and two, she doesn't actually want to talk to him about sex, and three, she's not sure she wants to hear what he has to say.

The text comes when she's in bed reading. She grabs her phone automatically, expecting something funny from Tina or Mercedes or Quinn, but instead it's Puckerman. The only reason she has his number in her phone in the first place is because of drumline, and she hasn't seen it pop up since sometime sophomore year when he was throwing a party and invited the whole line.

_Need 2 talk 2 u b4 band._

They normally start drumline practice at seven a.m., full marching band at seven-thirty, but for the first day of school, they're skipping all that and meeting in the band room when school starts at eight fifteen.

Lauren drops her phone on her nightstand and flops back against her pillows, dread twisting inside. It's going to be a long, long marching band season.


	2. Chapter 2: Make Them Believe

Warning: Homophobic language and non-graphic violence in this chapter.

Chapter Two: Make Them Believe

_I am just a man  
>Not superhuman<br>I'm not superhuman  
>Someone save me from the hate<em>  
>"Hero" Skillet<p>

_September_

The Lima Bean is crowded. There are a lot of adults in business suits, carrying newspapers and briefcases, but mostly it's crowded with people his age. The adults go fast, mostly medium or large drips and maybe a muffin, but the others - his classmates, in their whirl of bright colors and mismatched outfits. Blaine hesitates just inside the door, staring at them, and he doesn't realize how tight he's gripping the strap of his bag until the little bird pin jabs its beak into his palm - order frothy sweet iced drinks and cookies and donuts.

McKinley will be riding a sugar high until lunch, he can already tell.

He rises up on his toes a bit, looking around. Kurt's a little taller than he is, but not enough so it makes much difference, not like his giant stepbrother, not in this crowded room. Still, Blaine can't help but think he should be able to pick him out. Kurt is - exceptional, and Blaine should have a better sense of him.

"Your first day without a uniform and that's all the effort you made?" Kurt's at his elbow, hands on his hips and shaking his head in dismay. Blaine fights hard against his flush and wishes for a mirror. He looks good in brand new but artfully worn jeans and a fitted black and white stripped t-shirt under a dark red sweater, or at least that's what he thought before he left his house.

(It's too hot for the sweater, but he likes the bright pop of color juxtaposed against the black and white. It's more than an aesthetically pleasing addition, though. When he got dressed, the shirt by itself was too thin and he was too exposed. He misses the crisp lines of his Dalton blazer and the perfect knot of the tie at his throat.)

"My fashion fairy godfather failed to show up with his magic wand this morning." Blaine smiles brightly to cover his nerves. He spent extra time on his hair, carefully smoothing gel through it. His mother shook her head when she saw him - _why do you want to look like something you're not?_ she asked the first time she saw him struggling to hide the curls, and smoothed her hands along his cheeks, and kissed his forehead - but told him she loved him and hoped he had a good first day at his new school.

(His parents don't understand why he transferred. For all his vast vocabulary, he doesn't have the words that will make sense to them. He doesn't even have words that make sense to himself.)

They make small talk through the line, until they have their coffees and move off to the side to add sugar. Or Blaine does, at least.

"Are you ready for public school?" Kurt asks.

Blaine pops the lid off his coffee and blows on it lightly, the steam curling up around his face. He looks at Kurt through it and smiles. "Of course. Everyone will love me, I am a delight." His grin widens when Kurt doesn't even bother to hide his little snort of laughter. "And I have a secret weapon."

"Oh?" Kurt lifts one eyebrow.

"Yes." He snaps the lid back into place and takes a slow drink. Kurt was right. The coffee here _is_ good. His gaze lingers on Kurt's mouth for a moment, and then he meets his eyes. "You, obviously."

Kurt's cheeks go slightly pink, and he breathes in sharply, but he doesn't smile. That's okay. Blaine's already figured out that sometimes, the less he smiles, the more he wants to. "_I_ am your secret weapon?"

"I see no wrong with aligning myself with the best dressed person in school."

That earns him the tiniest hint of a smile. "One harm," Kurt says, lightly tapping his finger against the top of his coffee.

"What's that?"

"Your outfit looks so much worse in comparison."

Blaine laughs, long and loud, and he doesn't care that there's an impatient line behind them or that they'll have to leave for school soon or that, actually, he is really nervous, because right there, with Kurt, he's so glad he left Dalton, so glad he decided to take that risk.

#

They're sitting together in band while Mr. Schuester takes roll - _so many names_, and it's no wonder they leave their instruments put away - when Blaine leans closer to Kurt, who has his head down, looking at something on his phone. Something from Mercedes, or at least that's the impression Blaine gets from the way they keep looking at each other and laughing without saying anything, even though they're sitting side by side. (One benefit of no instruments means they can mingle without worrying about staying with their sections. Only the drumline stays together, though Lauren looks very unhappy and sits with her arms crossed over her chest, glowering at Mr. Schuester. Blaine has no idea what's going on there.)

Still, Kurt looks at him when he speaks. "Do you have dvds of previous competitions?" He keeps his voice low not so much because he's worried about interrupting Mr. Schuester, but because it's probably not the best idea to admit he knows this little about marching band in the middle of the band.

Kurt nods. "Somewhere. Quinn might know." She's on the far side of their group, looking intently at Mr. Schuester. "Why?"

Blaine lowers his voice even more, in part because he doesn't want everyone to hear, and in part because it gives him an excuse to scoot even closer to Kurt. "I've never seen a high school marching band."

"Never?" Kurt's voice is sharp and loud. Everyone turns to look at them, and Blaine sits back quickly, his cheeks warm. Kurt ignores everyone else, and they don't stare long when nothing interesting is going on. "Never?" he says again, quieter, and Blaine shakes his head.

Mercedes nudges Kurt, and he types something frantically into his phone. Mercedes types something back - of course they're texting while sitting right next to each other. Blaine's phone is safely locked away in his locker, because at Dalton, they weren't allowed them during classes - and Kurt nods.

He puts his hand on Blaine's shoulder and urges him closer. (It doesn't take much.) "Two birds, one stone," he murmurs. Blaine shrugs, confused, and Kurt's grin is slightly twisted. "You'll see a competitive marching band, and we'll check out the competition. Friday's an away game for us, and the band doesn't travel this early in the season."

"So?"

"So we're going to check out Carmel's show." He sits back, smug and pleased, and Blaine shrugs again, because there is no way he's going to turn down the chance to spend Friday night with Kurt, even though he doesn't understand why Kurt seems so pleased with himself.

#

Their trip to Carmel takes an interesting turn. Blaine assumes it will be the usual suspects, and he is glad for it. He finds himself unexpectedly missing their daily band camp lunches. It hasn't been the same this week. All marching band members have the same lunch, but the dynamics are different when Wes, David, and Matt join their table, and Lauren has been scarce all week.

His plans are shot down fast. Tina can't go because she already has a date, and she's so giddy and smiling no one can really be upset with her for ditching them. Wednesday at lunch, Matt announces a drumline sectional after school Friday, and later, Lauren storms through the school, glaring at anyone who looks at her.

And then there were four.

Friday, Quinn spends so much time staring hungrily at the cheerleaders walking around in their uniforms, their skirts swishing across their thighs, that finally Blaine asks Kurt, leaning in close because it's another good excuse to rest his chin on Kurt's shoulder and whisper near his ear, if she's gay.

It's a good thing he's watching so close, or he would miss the way Kurt shivers a little. His voice is even when he says she's not and that he will fill Blaine in later. Which is fine. Blaine's curiosity is piqued, but better still is the promise of a private conversation with Kurt, even if they will be discussing someone else.

They're supposed to meet at Kurt's car after school, but Blaine hurries out of his last class, working his way through the crowd of students frenetic with weekend freedom, and manages to beat Kurt. He's leaning casually against Kurt's locker when he shows up, and if Kurt is surprised to see him, he doesn't show it. Blaine, meanwhile, beams and bounces out of his way.

"This is going to be fun," he says, unable to temper his enthusiasm.

Kurt shakes his head slowly. "I still can't believe you've never seen a high school marching band."

Blaine rocks forward onto the balls of his feet, shoving his hands into his back pockets. "I've seen the Pride of the Buckeyes," he offers. "Dalton didn't have a football team."

Kurt huffs a little. "It's not about _football_," he says, but he smiles too, slings his bag over his shoulder, and shuts his locker. "Come along then, it's high time you saw the competition."

Quinn is waiting at Kurt's big, shiny black Navigator. Even though it is sunny and warm, she's wearing her red and white letterman jacket, her hair pulled back in a tight, sleek ponytail. Her hands are shoved into her coat pockets, and she's leaning against the passenger door. She doesn't look up until Kurt remotely unlocks the doors.

"Where's Mercedes?" Quinn asks and smiles. If she looked sad a moment before, she doesn't now, and Blaine doubts what he thinks he saw.

Kurt lifts one shoulder in a languid shrug. "I thought she would be out here already."

Blaine catches sight of her headed toward them, and just as he says, "There she is," Quinn looks too and groans.

"Why am I being punished?" she asks, but she's looking at the sky, not at them.

There's a short brunette walking - more like skipping - next to Mercedes. They're both carrying backpacks and similar black instrument cases, so he's guessing she plays the trumpet too, but Blaine has no idea who the newcomer is.

He looks at Kurt, ready to ask, but his expression matches Quinn's. Never mind then, he'll work it out for himself. Turns out, he doesn't have to, because she is more than willing to tell him all about her.

She's Rachel Berry. With a gold star, because it is a metaphor for her being a star. (Not a very subtle metaphor, that one, but he manages to grin instead of laugh, and she beams back at him.) She has two gay dads, she's a junior like they are, and she will play for the New York Philharmonic and then the London Philharmonic - its official logo is a star, which is a sign, and Rachel bounces in her seat while she talks about it - but she would also like to be the first woman to be the principal trumpet player for the London Symphony Orchestra. She is so talented she cannot restrict her music to one country only.

(Mercedes rolls her eyes and snorts, but doesn't look up from her phone. Blaine still hasn't figured out the dynamics between them all. Quinn sits, her hands tucked together neatly in her lap, staring out the window. Mercedes is next to her, playing with her phone. In the seat behind them, Rachel leans forward, her hands on the back of their seat. He doesn't think they're friends, but if they're not, why would Mercedes bring her?)

Kurt plugs in his iPod and music fills the car. Blaine doesn't have time to take a breath before the other four are singing along, belting out the words, and they sound _good_. He sits and listens to them through the end, and when Kurt sneaks a little look at him, he grins his approval and gives him two thumbs up.

The next song, he joins in too, and he likes the way his voice sounds with Kurt's.

#

Carmel High School is _packed_. Their football team must actually be good. They can't find a spot in the lot and have to park a few blocks away. Blaine is relieved when Quinn sheds her McKinley colors and leaves her jacket in the car. Still, Blaine wonders if they will fit in, because none of them are exactly showing school spirit for Carmel either, and at Dalton, you could always pick out the new guys immediately because you'd never seen them before. Not at Carmel, though. Both the home and the visitor sections are packed with people. Many of the students wear school colors, but not all of them.

Blaine starts to sit near the band - that's why they're here, after all - but Kurt nudges him up into the stands. "You want a better view than that," he says, his hand on Blaine's elbow, "and we don't want to get too close. They do know what we look like."

"And they'll what, pelt us with used reeds?" Which is actually disgusting, and not at all what he wants to be thinking about when Kurt is touching him like that, but it's the first thing that comes to mind and it spills out.

Luckily, Kurt laughs even while he grimaces.

"Last year, they threw eggs at Rachel," Mercedes says. Rachel gamely smiles and edges her way down the bench until there's room for all of them. There's a vulnerable tremble to the set of her mouth.

They sound like that is something normal, but it is _not_. "Why would they do that?"

Mercedes sits next to Rachel and takes her hand. "Because they're entitled assholes," she says.

"Rachel's vegan," Kurt adds in a quiet aside.

"It was cruel." Quinn takes the end seat, but doesn't sit down. Instead she stands, arms crossed over her stomach, and stares down toward the football field. He can't tell if she's frowning at the marching band or the Carmel booster section or the cheerleaders, but her expression is pinched, her eyebrows drawn down tight.

The band gets up and files away from the bleachers, in silent, perfect rows. They line up along the far side of the field while the football teams finish warming up and finally leave the field.

Mercedes tugs Rachel to her feet, and the five of them stand together in a row, watching the band. It's a little creepy; Blaine is used to McKinley's marching band - _their_ marching band - and they do not hold attention like that, so still it's hard to tell if they're breathing.

"They're the ones to beat in Ohio," Kurt tells him. They're standing very close together, and Blaine is sharply aware of every time Kurt's arm bumps against his. "They're horrible."

Their four drum majors call them to attention, and the sound of their "hut" rolls across the field like thunder. The band is massive, probably four hundred people, but they sound like one voice, and when they start marching onto the field, every step is right in time.

They perform pre-game in a solid block, the color guard around the outside, the drumline horizontally across the center. It's similar to the simple, standard opening fair that the freshman and transfers (the freshman and Blaine, he's the only transfer in marching band and maybe the only transfer in the entire high school) learned during their pre-band camp week of practice, but Carmel sounds incredible, pitch perfect and full. (Blaine recognizes two of the songs they play, "The Star Spangled Banner" of course, but also "Carmen Ohio" which he knows from Ohio State games. He's guessing the other two are school songs, and from the way the crowd reacts to one of them, it's definitely the fight song.)

"Wow," Blaine says when they're done.

"Just wait." Kurt grimaces, but he also turns and dusts off the bleacher before sitting down, so Blaine isn't sure if the face he pulls is aimed at the band or the dirty seat. Blaine sits too, close enough their legs touch and he cares less about the intimidating perfection of the band.

#

Blaine and Quinn actually watch the football game. Kurt, Mercedes, and Rachel sit and gossip for awhile - maybe they _are_ friends? Blaine considers it, but there's a football game on! _Football_, and Carmel looks like a pretty good team, and he's easily distracted - and then Mercedes pulls some glossy fashion magazines out of her bag and she and Kurt start talking Homecoming.

(Which is _weeks_ away, but Kurt pats Blaine's arm whenever he wants his attention, and Blaine happily drags his attention away from the game to admire the cut of a particular jacket or the smooth line of a tie.)

During the first time-out of the second quarter, the cheerleaders kick off a quick dance routine, and Quinn leans forward, her hands clenched tight together. Blaine knows she's been watching the game - they both cheered hard for a good tackle about a minute into the game, and she turned to look at him a moment, smiling, and then she actually started talking about the plays sometimes - but now she looks...well, he's not sure how she looks. Desperate, maybe, or heart-broken.

(He's been so focused on Kurt - on _Kurt_, on _Kurt_, on _Kurt_, the repetition like the chorus of the song in his heart - and on learning his way through the trials of marching band that he hasn't caught up on all the gossip he needs. And Kurt, though he has a cruel-yet-on-point comment for everyone else, is protective of his girls, and Blaine has heard little from him about Mercedes, Quinn, Tina, and Lauren. Rachel, too, it seems. He is silent about Finn as well, but the way he shies away from gossip about his step-brother feels different somehow.)

When there's five minutes left on the clock, the band starts to make their way out of the stands. They are absolutely silent, the wind fluttering their plumes, and even though it's so hot sweat trickles down the small of his back, he shivers. There was no marching band at Dalton, but he knows well the heavy weight of tradition.

The crowd cheers as the quarter ends and the football teams head to the locker rooms. They cheer again, rising to their feet, as the marching band takes the field. The drum majors do their salute, complicated and flashy, and spread out, three up front, one at the back. The band stands so still at attention, chins up, expressions fierce. Not even the color guard or the twirlers smile.

It drags on, and though Blaine can see how it is intentional, making the audience wait, he finds himself standing without fully considering it, leaning forward a little as the anticipation builds.

Kurt huffs, but he stands too and places one hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Wait," he says, his voice low.

There's no warning when the show begins, just sudden movement and music. The brass comes in first, the trumpets clear and bright and beneath that the rumble of the trombones and sousaphones.

It goes on and on, perfect sound and perfect marching. Their white shoes flash against the field, and every misstep would be visible except there is none. The second the music begins, guard and twirlers flash smiles so big and so wide they should look fake, but don't.

Even though it's only the first week of school, they have all four songs on the field, and they are good. Really, really good. Competition ready, Blaine thinks, even though he's not entirely sure what that means for a marching band. But they are powerhouses of sound and movement, and the way their drumline slams out rhythms that make his heart stutter, he's reminded of Lauren that first day at lunch - the day he met Kurt, and Blaine hopes he will never want to stop referring to it like that - and the only real thing she's said to him in three weeks. Carmel's drumline _is_ the heartbeat of this band and their sound pulses through him.

Blaine reaches out and grabs Kurt's arm, because this is horrible. He can't imagine how they will ever be good enough to beat Carmel, no matter how confident everyone seems during rehearsals and no matter how hard they worked during band camp. They are not even good enough to compete with that, no where near good enough to win.

During the fourth song, one of their trumpets steps onto the fifty yard line. The band moves around him in a slick spiral, and he lifts his trumpet high, aiming at the press box. The sound that comes out is a wail, the most beautiful tone Blaine has ever heard come from a brass instrument. His solo goes on and on, ringing through the band, silencing the stands, and he closes out the show, this star around which everyone else turns.

Even when he snaps down his trumpet, his head stays up, and it's like he's staring at them, _sneering_ at them, daring them to do something about it.

"Rachel, get _down_," Mercedes says, and Blaine can finally look away from the soloist. Rachel's actually standing on the bench so she can see over the people in front of her; all the color has drained out of her face, and her eyes are very wide and very dark.

"We should go." Quinn immediately steps onto the stairs. "We need to get out of here before the band gets back."

The marching band is leaving the field on one end, the football teams entering from the other end, and the crowd is full of energy, surging around them. Blaine stumbles after her. Kurt catches his arm when he actually trips against the edge of the metal bench, and they stop on the stairs a second, letting Rachel and Mercedes go ahead of them.

"Come on, girl," Mercedes says, her hands on Rachel's shoulders. "He is _not_ worth it."

"I didn't say I was going to do anything," Rachel argues, her voice shrill.

"You don't have to say it." Mercedes nudges her down the stairs. "Everything going on in that head of yours right now needs to stop."

Blaine turns to Kurt, not sure what he's going to say first - "What's up with Rachel?" or "How are we supposed to beat _that_? - but the crowd pushes against them and they have to start walking or be crushed. People are moving fast now, hurrying to the concession stand before the second half starts, or to the bathroom, or just to go talk in big groups in everyone else's way.

There are too many people, and they push too close. Someone dodges in between Kurt and Blaine, and even though he's out of the way a second later, Blaine is sure he's about to lose the only people he knows in the whole stadium. He reaches out again, grabs Kurt again, and this time, Kurt takes his hand right back, his fingers curling around Blaine's. The girls are already out of sight, and he's moving fast, even though he's the driver and therefore they're not going anywhere without him.

It's not how he's been imagining holding Kurt's hand, but it's pretty great. They reach the bottom of the bleachers, but Blaine just holds tighter, and Kurt doesn't let go. There's a bottleneck near the gate, where people aren't really leaving, but keep meeting up with their friends and only some of them cut off toward the concession stand. They have to stop, and Kurt turns to look at him thoughtfully.

Blaine wants to say something smooth, something that will hide the fact he's never done this before, never had a boyfriend, never even really dated, he's just had crushes on unattainable guys because, as much as he likes who he is, unattainable guys are _safe_, and he's not always ready to be the person he needs to be. He's not even sure who that person is, most days.

"Fucking faggots." And something hard - an elbow, maybe a fist - slams into the small of Blaine's back. He stumbles into Kurt, falling, falling, but Kurt takes his weight like it's nothing, braces him until his balance is back.

Blaine is speechless, but not Kurt. "Big words for someone who only needs to know how to say 'do you want fries with that.'" Though he sounds cold and calm, his hands are tight on Blaine's arms.

When he finally turns, Blaine can't tell who said it. Some people are eyeing them, the way they stand so close, but no one is in their faces.

"I hate Ohio," Kurt says, his voice low. He squeezes Blaine's arms and lets him go. "Will you be okay?"

It's then that Blaine realizes he's shaking. He tries to smile, to reassure Kurt that everything is fine, and it is a sad statement about that person's self esteem that he has to pick on two people for their sexuality, but his tongue is numb.

"Come on." Kurt takes his hand again, a hard set to his jaw. "Let's go home."

#

The girls know something's wrong, but Kurt won't talk about it, and Blaine can't. He buckles himself into the front seat and stares out the window the entire ride back to Lima. Mercedes and Kurt keep the conversation going, but there are more things left unsaid than any of their words could cover.

Kurt drops off Rachel first. She crawls out of the third row, but as she's sliding out Quinn's door, she stops and puts her hand on Blaine's shoulder.

"People can say horrible things." She squeezes his shoulder and offers a small smile to Kurt and then she's gone.

"Rachel Berry." Kurt sighs, like that says everything. Probably it does, to Mercedes and Quinn, but all Blaine cares about is how she possibly knew without being there.

After Kurt takes Mercedes and Quinn home, he and Blaine sit in silence until the door shuts behind the girls. The radio is on too low for Blaine to make out any of the words. Kurt stares at him, his face slightly green in the light cast off the dash.

"Do you want to go home?" he asks.

"No."

"I didn't think so." Kurt puts the car into gear, and Blaine turns back to the window again, trusting in Kurt.

#

They end up back at the Lima Bean. Every seat inside is taken, but even if they could get a table, Blaine wouldn't want it. Kurt leaves Blaine in the car with the radio while he gets them coffee. When he gets back, he hands over Blaine's coffee. It's so hot it burns his fingers even through the paper cuff.

"Is that," Kurt is hesitant and his words come slow. Blaine has never heard him sound like this, not once in the three week's they've spent so many hours together, "the first time someone called you that?"

Blaine could lie, could brush it off and change the conversation. Sitting in the dark with Kurt, tucked away from the rest of the world, safe in Kurt's space, he wants to talk about it.

"No." Blaine stares down at his coffee. "At my old school, it was bad. The harassment was bad."

"Is that why you left Dalton?"

"What?" Blaine's head comes up fast, but it makes sense. He doesn't talk about that part of his life much. How could Kurt know? "My old, old school. I transferred to Dalton freshman year to get away from everything."

Kurt nods. "Did they hurt you?"

"No." Blaine has to look away, because Kurt looks so sympathetic, so _knowing_ that he can't handle it. "Just words. Really horrible, hurtful words, and notes in my bag, and abuse written on my locker and spray painted on my parents' car one night when they left it in the driveway. But it sucked, and it made me so mad." He stops, because he hates what comes next almost as much as he hates the memory of the harassment. "There was this guy, he was younger, but he wanted - I don't know. He wanted to be popular, I guess. He called me an ass licker and poured his soda all over my history report. It was the end of the year, that was half my grade, and I just - I snapped. I hit him." Blaine's hands are shaking so hard the coffee spills up through the lid, and he quickly sets it in the cup holder. "I hit him a lot. I didn't really know what I was doing, but he didn't either, and he was little, and I couldn't stop."

Kurt's silent, and Blaine can't help himself, he can't, not when he cares so much about what Kurt thinks. He has to look, has to know if he's ruined everything between them because he cannot, will not, lie. Not to Kurt.

So he looks up, and Kurt is staring at him, but there's no horror, no disgust, just this endless sympathy and sadness and understanding. Blaine hates that he knows, that he can empathize, but at the same time, he's warmed through and through.

"It was wrong," he says, not because this is a lesson he wants to impart, but because he needs to remind himself. Sometimes still, the anger burns so deep inside of him, and he doesn't ever want to be that person again. "Prejudice is just ignorance, and you can't fix ignorance with violence. I shouldn't have hit him, and I shouldn't have run away after."

"To Dalton?"

He nods. "I was in trouble for hitting him, even though no one, _no one_, cared when I complained about the bullying. I was the bad guy. I should have understood I was doing something wrong, should have known if I was going to _choose_ to be gay, that was the consequence." Even now, as he tries so hard to be calm, frustration and fury burns him up inside. "I told my parents I couldn't go back, and they got me into Dalton."

Kurt keeps waiting, keeps listening, even when he stops and the silence is so thick.

"I ran, Kurt." He clenches his hands into fists and presses them against his thighs. "I let them scare me away, and I regret it. Because no matter how I pretend to be brave, no matter how hard I want to stay at McKinley and deal with things like tonight, all I can think about is that I ran away last time, and I'm not brave at all."

Kurt puts his hand over Blaine's. His fingers are soft, and he strokes his thumb across Blaine's skin. "I think you're brave." His voice is gentle, quiet, but there's more strength, more intensity in it than Blaine's ever heard directed at him before. His eyes burn, and he blinks quickly. The last thing he wants to do is look away from Kurt. "And even when it feels like you're not," he squeezes Blaine's hand, "we can be brave together."


	3. Chapter 3: My Heart Beats Like a Drum

Chapter Three: (My Heart) Beats Like a Drum

_I told her "I love the view from up here  
>Warm sun and wind in my ear<br>We'll watch the world from above  
>As it turns to the rhythm of love"<br>We may only have tonight  
>But till the morning sun you're mine all mine<em>  
>"Rhythm of Love" Plain White T's<p>

_September_

Lauren drags her feet getting ready each morning that first week of school. She tells herself she's just tired - and she is, she's awake for hours each night, flopping from one side of the bed to the other, flipping her pillows over and over to get the cool side, kicking off the blankets and tugging them back on a few minutes later - but really, she's trying to avoid running into Puckerman before practice starts and she knows it.

That _sucks_.

#

Tuesday, she picks up Tina on the way to school. Normally, they won't ride in together - this year, Tina is the one carrying guard equipment in her car for the freshmen and sophomores who can't yet drive - but it's the first day and their schedules aren't yet set.

Tina slings her messenger bag into the back and drops into the passenger seat.

"Awesome boots." Lauren eyes them with appreciation. Tina grins and props one foot up on the dash.

"They were super cheap, too. Thank god for eBay." Tina tilts her head toward Lauren. "So you ready to tell me who you hooked up with Friday?"

_Crap._

She focuses on the road as she pulls away from the curb, but out of the corner of her eye, she can see Tina watching her expectantly.

"No." It's worth a try at least.

Tina reaches out and tugs lightly on the collar of Lauren's shirt. The bruise on her neck is covered by make-up, but it's not perfect, and Tina traces her nail along the edge. "Spill, sweetie. Obviously you had some fun."

Lauren grips the steering wheel until her fingers ache. "No one. Nothing happened."

"Oh, yeah, spontaneous hickeys have been popping up all over Ohio." Tina leans back against the door, her body pretzeled up, black skirt slipping across her thighs. "Fine, keep your secret for now. Only the band was there, I'll figure it out eventually."

True and terrifying.

"What did you guys design for the flags this year?" Lauren asks, in part to change the subject, but also because she's curious.

"They're awesome." Tina bounces a little. "Lots of flash, and we have some amazing stunts planned. We're going to win high auxiliary for sure."

"Hell yeah. We're taking all the awards this season." She holds her fist up, and Tina bumps their hands together.

"I'll let you change the subject," Tina says so suddenly Lauren actually swerves a little, startled. "But I want to say this first: I don't know why you're keeping this a secret, because you don't normally give a shit about what people think, but whatever, as long as you're happy, that's the important part."

Lauren bites hard on the inside of her cheek so she won't spill everything, because she knows how lucky she is to have such awesome friends. No way that acceptance stretches to _Puckerman_, though.

It is really, really dumb to risk her friendships for a boy. Lauren resolves anew to ignore him until he goes away.

#

They get to school a couple minutes before the first bell rings. They have lockers together on the main floor, though not the prime lockers by the band room. (The seniors grabbed those, of course. Next year, it will be theirs.) Lauren half expects Puckerman to be waiting at her locker, but he's not. She clenches her hands into fists and tells herself that weird drop in her stomach is relief.

Mercedes and Quinn are already there, though. Kurt and Hudson walk in together, but Kurt splits away from him to join them. Lauren watches Hudson head down toward his locker. The guys who are in both marching band and football have lockers in the band hall, too, all grouped together.

"Good, good," Kurt tells Mercedes and Quinn. He eyes Tina for a moment. "You should embrace color," but then he nods. "Not bad though." He turns to Lauren and raises an eyebrow. "Too much color. Neutrals are your friends. Stripes do not go on top of stripes."

Lauren rolls her eyes, but ignores him. It's advice she's heard a hundred times before, and she's not about to start listening to him now. Kurt's fashion is not her fashion. She dresses in things she likes, things which are sexy and comfortable.

Plus she's got something else on her mind. Puckerman's not with Hudson, either.

Damn it. She doesn't _care_. So what if he said he needed to talk to her? She's so much better off that he hasn't shown. What happened between them was a mistake, and if he's figured that out, too, well good.

He sneaks into the band room halfway through first hour. Schue doesn't notice - he's too busy giving them a big pep talk about how it's important to do their best and be one band and give their all during practice because how they practice is how they will perform and how they're definitely going to win - but Matt does. Lauren's sitting with the quads, angry at herself for caring that Puckerman doesn't want to talk to her after all. Matt leans back to mutter something to Puckerman; Lauren accidentally meets Puckerman's eyes when she turns to look too.

He mouths something, but she's never been much of a lip reader. She's struggling to figure it out when she realizes that means they're staring at each other right there in the middle of the line.

She snaps her head around, glaring forward at Schue. Julie bumps her shoulder against Lauren's once and then a second time, but Lauren just shakes her head a little, trying to be subtle about it. They're not all that close, but freshman year, they were the only two girls in the battery, all the others were in the pit, and Julie took Lauren under her wing. The first piece of advice she gave was, do not ever, _ever_ fool around in the line. Any other section was fair game, but the only way to be respected on the line - and especially the battery - was to be just as talented and tough and foul as the boys. That meant no fucking around with the other drummers, period.

Lauren's been doubting the truth of that, but bringing this drama into the line will only prove it right.

#

"Lauren." Puckerman tries to stop her when the bell rings at the end of class, but she shoulders past him, planting her elbow in his arm when he touches her. They're surrounded by the band, loud and boisterous, but she half expects him to make a scene anyway.

He doesn't. His fingers slip across the back of her hand and then she's away from him, spilling with the others out into the crowded hallway.

#

Lauren doesn't _hide_.

She's just strategically eating her lunch away from the cafeteria. So what if the rest of the band is there, eating together. She already has homework. It can't hurt to get a running start at it, because with competition season ramping up - and football games most Friday nights, but that's mostly warm-up - she'll be busier than ever with the line.

It sucks that she's not supposed to take food into the library, but she manages.

#

Luckily, she only has to worry about Puckerman showing up in one of her other classes. Except for band and weight lifting, she's in the advanced track, so she spends her days with the same people in different variations. She specifically signed up for classes with Tina and Quinn, but Rachel and Mike and Santana and Matt and Julie and a score of others cycle through, a mix of juniors and seniors.

Her luck runs out seventh period in weight lifting. They don't dress out first day, so Lauren slumps on the bleachers with a couple of the guys from wrestling. She's talking with Ben about their plans for state when Puckerman and Hudson and Evans walk in.

"Fuck." Then, to cover it, "Damn football players."

Ben nods, slams his fist into Tom's back to get his attention. Andy looks too, and the four of them glare. There's not the same antagonism between the wrestlers and the football team as there is between football and hockey, but they have to share weight room space and that sucks.

At least they've got the edge in class. Coach Gray teaches weight lifting, and he definitely favors his wrestling team.

Hudson grabs a seat on the first row of bleachers. Puckerman glances up at her, but she hardens her expression. After a second, he drops down next to Hudson, Evans on his other side.

Coach Gray starts in on the weight room rules, and Lauren tunes him out. She already knows them like she knows the cadences that rip through the band or the best way to pin a guy who's got probably four inches on her and a much longer reach. This isn't for her.

There's a lot that's not.

#

As soon as she hits the gym floor after class ends, Puckerman heads toward her. He's not fazed by her little group of wrestlers, even when they start pushing out their chests and squaring their shoulders. Lauren's pretty used to posturing like that.

"We need to talk," he tells her. She stops walking, hands on her hips, and glares, shaking her head at him.

"I don't have a thing to say to you."

"No? Seemed like you did."

"Nope. Not a damn thing now or this morning." She hits the last word hard. Immediately, she wants to take it back. She really needs to think before she says shit. Before she does shit.

"I can explain," he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Whatever. Don't care."

She tilts her head to the side, twists up her mouth. She's not going to back down from this - she's not going to talk to him - but she sure as hell isn't going to run away either. They face off right there in the middle of the hallway, until Lauren isn't sure what she's going to do. Who knew Puckerman could be as fucking stubborn as she could.

Finally, a bit of luck. Coach Beiste comes slamming out of the locker room, clickboard in one hand, then stops. "Puckerman!" she snaps. "You'd better be on the field in the next two minutes if you plan on staying on the team. I don't tolerate lateness."

"Fuck." Puck shoves his hands into his pockets. "We'll do this later."

"No." Lauren hooks her thumbs in the pockets of her skirt until she realizes she's unconsciously mimicking him. "We won't."

She stands there until he curses again and heads into the locker room.

"What was that about?" Ben asks. She shrugs and starts walking again.

"Drumline shit." It's a good excuse; Ben isn't a band geek. He laughs and lets it go, which is exactly what she knew he would do.

#

Wednesday, she tries to show up at the practice field with just enough time to grab her quads from the equipment truck and make it to the line before Matt starts their first warm-up cadence, but she cuts it too close, and Matt stares at her as she rushes over, breathless and still settling the weight of the quads just right, silent and judgmental.

When they break from the line to join the rest of the band on the field, he stops her with one hand on her shoulder. "Twenty during the water break." He doesn't scream at her, the way their captain would have last year, but the weight of his disappointment is worse.

She doesn't apologize, because there's no point. If you fuck up with the line, you don't need to be sorry, you just need to be better.

When Schue lets them break for water at eight, Lauren carefully sets aside her quads and hits the ground right there on the field, her palms flat against the grass. She counts them off as she rushes through the pushups, pieces of hair blown loose from her ponytail tumbling into her eyes. Her arms burn by the time she's done.

Tina waits for her at the edge of the field, holding two bottles of water and talking to Mike. They're both smiling, giddy over each other, and Lauren feels like smiling too. (She very carefully keeps her eyes away from anyone on the line. Maybe if she ignores him hard enough, Puckerman will disappear.)

"Which sucks worse, cymbal laps or pushups?" Mike asks when she joins them. Lauren laughs and takes the water Tina offers.

"Cymbal laps for sure. Pushups are fun." She gulps some of the water. This is the first time she's ever really talked to him, and she's curious to see if he's good enough for her girl. "Which would you rather do?"

"Cymbal laps. I like clanging them together." He grins and bumps his arm against Tina's. "If it wasn't for guard, I would have tried for the cymbal line."

Lauren nods. For sure, respect for the drumline is one way to impress her. Over by the bleachers, Matt puts on his snare drum again, and Lauren sighs. She loves the line, she does. She's just not ready to hit the field again, and the tense set of her back because Puckerman is right the hell there.

But she finishes her water, hands the bottle back to Tina - Tina recycles at home - and heads back to her quads. Ready for this or not, she doesn't have a choice.

#

Puckerman catches her at the equipment truck after practice.

"What the hell is going on, Zizes?"

She carefully puts away her quads and pushes away from the truck, trying to get a little space away from the rest of the line. When they're closer to alone - about as close as they'll get unless she's willing to be late for second period - she crosses her arms over her chest and waits. Most people talk to fill an awkward silence.

Not Puckerman, and despite herself, she's impressed. She manages to hold out until the busses for the non-drivers are gone and most of the band drivers, and then she realizes that if she doesn't do something, she's going to be alone with him, and she's going to be late for second period, maybe late enough she should just skip. The fact that those two things sound really great is what finally spurs her into action.

Plus Quinn and Tina are both standing at their cars, watching her. She starts to cover her hickey, but catches herself and drops her hand back to her side. Damn it, one of these days she's going to learn to be subtle or some shit like that.

"Nothing's going on. Let it go." She tilts her head a little toward Quinn. To his credit, he doesn't turn to look. Maybe he doesn't even know what she means. "I don't want to be late."

His jaw tenses, but he doesn't say anything else, and she walks away.

#

Lauren showers after weight lifting, then heads to her locker to grab some books. She's got a couple hours until sectionals - they're scheduled so Puckerman and Matt don't have to choose between the line and football - but she's not ready to go home yet. She thinks about heading to the Lima Bean to do homework. Tina's got guard, but maybe Quinn will be interested.

Maybe that's a bad idea.

She doesn't get to find out. Quinn isn't at their lockers when she shows up. No one else is but Tina, who's leaned her flag against her locker and has her rifle slung over one shoulder while she waits.

She doesn't even give Lauren time to open her locker before she starts with, "Did you hook up with Puckerman?"

Lauren tries not to react, but her breathing stutters a little and her hand jerks on the lock. Tina knows her too well to miss that. She practically shouted it from the roof.

"I didn't fuck him," she says, because it's the truth, but it sounds like an excuse.

"But something happened." Tina slings her rifle off her shoulder and knocks the butt against the floor. "He's the guy at Matt's party."

Lauren nods, staring resolutely at her locker. She finally manages to get it unlocked, but she doesn't pull open the door.

"That's messed up."

"I know." Lauren glances at her quickly. Tina's easy smile is gone; instead, she looks angry. She's a tough girl, stomping around in her boots and wearing whatever the hell she wants and not putting up with inequality. Her fierceness is one of the things Lauren loves best about her, but when she's on the other end of it, it's intense.

"Were you just drunk?" Tina asks. "Or do you like him?"

She's still not ready to say it out loud. Instead, she bites hard on the inside of her cheek and nods. It's not actually an answer, but she knows Tina will understand. And, maybe unfortunately, she does.

"Shit. After everything with Quinn. Really." She sighs and leans her rifle against the locker too. Next thing Lauren knows, Tina's hugging her hard. Lauren has no idea what showed in her expression, but she hooks her arm around Tina's waist and clings to her, so grateful for their friendship. (And, okay, maybe a little the stress is getting to her and she just flat needs a hug.)

Finally Tina steps back and takes Lauren's hand. "You have to talk to Quinn."

"I know. I will." Lauren cups her free hand under her chin and cracks her neck a little. "I just don't know what to say. I don't know what to _do_."

"Talk to Quinn," Tina says again. "Tell Puckerman to go to hell." Her grip is tight, but Lauren takes it, not flinching. "Or, I guess, decide if you want anything else from him. But you have to talk to Quinn."

"I _know_." She didn't mean that sharpness. "Sorry."

"Yeah." Tina squeezes her hand again, then lets go so she can grab her gear. "I've got practice. Call me tonight, if you want to talk."

Lauren nods. Once she's alone, she grabs her books, shoves them into her bag. She can't go study like this. She can't do anything, not with the way her thoughts spin so fast. There's no good way out of this situation. It was bad enough when she just had a stupid fucking crush - god, kinda she hates that word, it sounds so light, so easy and uncomplicated - but now things are twisted up and she feels way too much.

What she needs is to get out of her own brain.

She swings her backpack over one shoulder and heads for a practice room.

#

Lauren runs cadences until she forgets everything but the way her body feels against the drum and the beat of the rhythms in her veins. She breaks out into new things then, pieces that might later come together in her quad solo at indoor competitions. She doesn't try any fancy stick tricks or anything, just different rhythms to see what feels good together.

That gets a little too much, lets the thoughts slip in because music makes her feel, and when she tastes blood and realizes she's chewing her bottom lip raw, she switches to straight rolls then crossovers and figure eights, faster and faster until her arms burn with it.

She stops, her shoulders tense, her skin tight.

The door behind her opens, and she turns around fast. Puckerman shuts it behind him, and leans against it, still watching her. No wonder she's drained and it's almost too much work to hold her sticks. If he's out of football practice and freshly showered, she's been at it for way more than an hour.

Lauren waits for him to tell her they need to talk or ask her what's wrong, but he doesn't say either of those things.

"I didn't know you were such a _chicken_." He hits the last word hard, and Lauren freezes, her hands clenched tight around her drumsticks. Anger flashes through her, white hot.

"Fuck you." Her voice is low and cold and each word carefully enunciated. "I am not a fucking chicken." She reaches back, carefully sets the sticks on her drum, then crosses her arms over her chest and glares.

"Then why the hell do you keep running away from me?" He doesn't even look pissed. Or no, he does a little, but mostly he looks - she doesn't know what, exactly. Frustrated. Disappointed.

Lauren digs her fingers into her arms, trying to hold herself together. "I have _never_ run away from _anything_ in my _life_."

He actually _laughs_, a short, bitter burst of noise. "Liar." He runs one hand over his mohawk and takes a step toward her. No way does she back up, give him any ground, and that's not just because she'd have to step around her drum to get away from him. "I've figured it out. You're so tough about everything, except when it comes to feelings, and then you're scared."

"I am not." Lauren's breathing hard and leaving finger-shaped bruises on her arms, and still she's only about half a second from punching him.

"Then fucking _talk_ to me."

"Oh, that's rich. Noah Puckerman the sex shark wants to _talk_." She sneers, because it's easy, because it's safer than actually thinking about what's happening between them. Of all the people who might know her well enough to call her on her shit, Puckerman is kind of the last one she would expect.

"Yeah, I do." He hooks his thumbs in his pockets and lets out a slow breath of air. "I want to talk about why you blow me off every time we hook up. I want to talk about why you act like we're friends one minute and like you can't stand me the next. I want to talk about why you _ran away_ after you kinda rocked my world."

"I am not running away from you." Lauren drops her hands on her hips and glares. He's unruffled, and she feels a little sick. When did she lose control of everyone, of every_thing_ in this damn situation? Instead of dealing with that, she changes her focus, because by god, she knows his weaknesses too. "You know why we can't be friends, you just don't want to talk about it, or even think about it." She pushes herself to take a step forward. "_Quinn_."

Puckerman doesn't back down. "I fucked up with Quinn and it sucks. She has every right to hate me. But why do you?"

"I don't hate you." She's already admitted it once, telling him again isn't giving away anything else. "Quinn is my friend. She's important."

"Quinn is an excuse. Every time we start something, you run away."

"I do not run!" Lauren digs her fists into her hips. "Look, I don't _owe_ you anything. I can change my mind. And what do you mean, 'every time?' We've hooked up _twice_. What, did you think you were so good I was going to fall in love with you or something? I was all worked up, and you were hot and you were there, that's it. You were _convenient_."

She says it without really thinking about what she's saying, because he's backed her into a corner and she has to react. Her voice is loud, filling the practice room, the acoustics amplifying the sharpness of her words. She expects him to yell right back, but he doesn't. "Two years on the line together." She can't read his expression. "I thought we were friends." There's something horrible in the way he says it, hurt and frustration all twisted up together.

All last year, all summer, while they circled around Quinn, offering her support and love and whatever she needed from them, no matter what it was, Puckerman drifted alone. Puckerman was popular, but when Quinn got pregnant, he lost Hudson for awhile, and suddenly it was clear. Puckerman was popular, but he didn't really have friends. Lauren never thought he wanted them, either. The only time he came close was when he tried to convince Quinn they could get through it together, they could be a family, he could be a better father than either of them had.

And he'd lost that too.

Lauren's heart breaks for him. She wants to reach out, wants to reassure him they are friends, that she's got his back, but she doesn't. She _can't_.

"Why do you keep pushing this?" she asks. To her horror, her voice comes out strangled. "You know Quinn's my friend. You know she comes first."

"That's part of it." He rubs the back of his neck. "You're a badass and you're kind of an asshole, but you don't fuck things up with your friends. I've got badass and asshole down, but I don't know how to do that."

"So you want me to play teacher." She widens her stance a little, squaring her hips and crossing her arms over her chest. It's sick, how much it hurts that he might be using her. (And dude's not been paying attention if he thinks she can't fuck up everything with her friends. Hell, he's the case in fucking point.)

"No. I'm trying to say you're awesome. Why wouldn't I want to be with you?"

_Because you're in love with Quinn._ But it's not that simple and she knows it.

"I can't hurt her."

His shoulders slump, and he laces his hands together at the back of his neck, his head down. "Being with me hurts her."

"Having you around -" She cuts that off, because even if it's true, it's a really shitty thing to say. "I don't know, actually. She won't talk about it. Just like you."

"So where do we go from here?"

"I don't know." She drops her hands to her sides, but that leaves her feeling exposed - and makes her fingers itch to touch him - so she shoves them into her pockets instead. "It'll be a long season on the line if we keep doing what we did this week."

"So that's it? You'll fix things for the line?"

Goddamn, he needs to stop looking at her like that, all sad eyes and hard set to his jaw. (How much of this is her fault? If she'd just dealt with her crush freshman year, they'd be over and done by now, and she wouldn't have this stubborn soft spot for him.)

"No." She cracks her knuckles, the sound somewhat muffled by her pockets. "I like you. I like being with you." There's more to that phrasing than she meant to say, and she stops, sucking in air, but she can't take back the words. "I can't hurt Quinn." She says it again more for herself than for him.

"I don't want to hurt her either." He drops his hands from his neck. "I've already done that."

"I won't lie to her about this."

He nods, steps closer. God, this is dumb, this is a bad idea, this is - she should stop it, but reaching for him, brushing her fingers against the back of his hand, shifting toward him when he takes another step, it feels so damn good.

"Puckasaurus doesn't do secrets," he says, a hint of a smirk lifting his mouth. Then he falters. "Look what happened when I did."

There's more she wants to say, more they need to deal with before this is anything close to a good idea, but instead she curls one hand around the back of his neck and hooks two fingers in one of his belt loops, tugging him closer.

Lauren wants to kiss him. She hesitates right before their mouths touch, faces so close together she can feel the warmth of his skin. He touches her hair, following the way it's pulled back in a ponytail, his fingers brushing the curve of her ear.

She's momentarily caught in the space between comfortable distance and the closeness she wants from him. He trails his fingers down the side of her throat until his hand rests on her shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly across her bare skin. Anticipation builds in her, until it feels like her blood is fizzy with it and she is inordinately aware of each breath.

"We need to get to practice," she says at last, her words taffy slow and warm across her tongue.

"Come over after?" His hand tightens a little on her shoulder, and she tugs on his belt loop.

"Can't, homework. What are you doing Friday after practice?"

"Something with you. Breadstix?"

"Maybe. I'll let you know what we're doing." Lauren's got a plan brewing, but she'll think about that later. Right now, they're going to be late to practice, and she really shouldn't be pushing Matt so early in the season. The line is important to her, more important than this boy, no matter how he makes her feel.

(Maybe not _more_ important, but the line is tightly scheduled, and it feels like she's got all the time she could ever want for Puckerman stretching out before them.)

They don't kiss, but those moments standing there with him, breathing the same and touching and the giddy freedom of finally admitting what she wants, for the moment that's even better than hooking up again.

#

They barely make it to practice on time, running so late they can't even stagger their arrival. Even if no one says anything, Lauren knows they notice. Drummers notice _everything_ about each other.

Worse, she completely flubs the drum solo the first time through. It's not because she's distracted by Puckerman - really, it's not, it's because she drummed too hard before practice and her arms are killing her, they hurt so much - but she knows it probably looks like she is. (And of all the places to fuck up, during the amazing drum solo Brad, their percussion instructor, wrote into "Hey Pachuco" is probably the worst. It's the big part of what they'll use to get high honors, and she wants it to be perfect.)

Matt stops them and makes them run it again from the top. Lauren can feel her cheeks burn and stares straight ahead so she doesn't have to notice any of the looks they're giving her.

Later, when they're putting their quads in the equipment truck so they'll be on at the practice field in the morning, Julie shakes her head at Lauren. "I hope you know what you're doing," she mutters.

Lauren isn't ready to talk about it, but denying it will just fuel the gossip, so she shrugs instead.

Matt stops her before she can head to her car. He's got his hands shoved into his pockets, and there's something awkward to the way he shifts his weight, but he meets her gaze steadily. "I don't care what you do on your own time," he says. "But when you're here, get your head into the line."

She nods, clinging to her drumsticks. No matter what he believes distracted her, she isn't going to make excuses. Whatever else is going on, the line comes first. That's the commitment they all made.

"Be at the practice field at six thirty tomorrow and Friday morning. I want to hear a perfect show out of you."

She nods again, and he heads for his suv, dismissing her. She watches him walk away, because the last time she really paid attention to his vehicle, it was under very different circumstances and dear god, thinking about that is not really encouraging her to go home and do her homework.

Especially not when Puckerman's leaning against his truck, smirking as he watches her stare at Matt's suv.

She mouths an _asshole_ at him, but she's grinning, too.

#

Thursday and Friday she runs through warm-ups, cadences, and the show for Matt over and over again. When the rest of the line shows up Friday to start their regular morning rehearsal, he nods and claps her on the shoulder.

"Much better." From him, that's quite a bit of praise, and Lauren is smug with it for the rest of the day.

#

Lauren takes her time putting away her quads after practice Friday night, dragging it out to give everyone else time to leave. Of course, they linger too, until she wants to strangle some of them, but finally she can head out to her car without any company.

Puckerman's sitting on the tailgate of his truck, smoking and listening to the radio from inside the cab. Oh yeah, _that's_ subtle. She's not really bothered though, not when he grins and reaches for her hand, tugging her to stand between his legs, not when he offers her a hit off his cigarette, not when he bumps his legs against hers and the night is so delightfully warm and clear around them.

"Breadstix?"

"Nope." She finishes the cigarette and stubs it out on the tailgate. When she's sure it's out, she tucks it into her pocket. She'll throw it away when she finds a trashcan. "I've got something better planned."

"Oh yeah?" He leers, and kinda she wants to slug him, so she does, a half-hearted punch to his stomach that barely makes him flinch. "Where are we going?"

"First, I'm taking my car home, so follow me. Then you're just going to drive where I tell you to go." From his grin, he's down.

#

They take fast food out to the reservoir, the radio on the classic rock station. The speakers crackle a little and sometimes the station goes fuzzy, but they sing along to a couple really good songs and Lauren sort of loves it. She leans against the door, half turned in the seat, and lets herself just look at Puckerman while he drives. Kinda he's fucking gorgeous, hair slightly curled at the top of his mohawk and the shadow of stubble along his jaw and the way his long, dark eyelashes frame his eyes when he glances at her. His orange shirt has a bit of a v-neck, and the way his neck rises out of it makes her want to leave a bruise right at the hollow of his throat.

He parks so the bed of the truck faces the water, but it's warm and dry enough that Lauren spreads the blanket she grabbed from the house out onto the ground. Puckerman drops down to sprawl next to her, and Lauren sets their food and drinks out of the way.

When her dad's in town, her parents come out here sometimes to fish and flirt and horse around. One of Lauren's favorite memories - she doesn't tell Puckerman about it until much later - is her parents teaching her how to cast a line. It was summer, the air was hot and the sky that cloudless blue it almost hurt her eyes. When she tilted back her head and looked up at her parents, they were backlit by the sun, golden halos and laughter and the slap of the water against the shore.

The radio's still on, turned just loud enough they can hear it over the slap of water against the rocks. Lauren takes Puckerman's hand and lets their fingers settle together. He squeezes tight, his grip firm and his hand warm.

Maybe tomorrow she'll talk to Quinn. (Maybe next week.) (Maybe she's scared shitless about this conversation, and she can't quite settle on _why_.) For tonight, she lets herself ignore all the ways this is a bad idea and just enjoy herself with Puckerman.

They don't talk much, and she basks in that silence between them. They don't hook up, either, though there are some kisses so warm and slick and wonderful that her body aches after they stop. Mostly, they just simply _be_, except they do it together.

Though, they _are_ drummers. They each grab a couple drumsticks from the truck - and Puckerman has enough stashed he could open his own store - and knock out pattern after pattern, building off the water and the bugs and the distant traffic, pounding rhythms into the ground and their cups of soda and their legs.

#

Her mom's car is in the driveway when Puckerman takes her home, but the lights in the front of the house are all off, except for the outside light by the door. The radio's up, the windows down, and the cab smells like menthol cloves and his cologne and like sweaty boy. It's full of warmth and music and this companionable _thing_ growing between them.

"Night, babe," he says.

"_Babe_? Oh, Puckerman, really?" She arches an eyebrow and her voice carries a note of warning, but he just grins. She grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him close enough to kiss. He moves against her, one hand on her shoulder, the other sliding into her hair, and he clutches at her while they kiss.

He's fucking _shaking_ a little, like he wants this so much he can't hardly stand it.

That makes her feel so powerful, so wanted, it absolutely steals her breath. She bites a little at his lower lip and he makes this _noise_, this half-strangled groan, that goes right through her. She does it again, harder, and flicks her tongue along the spot after.

He's dazed when she pulls away, his mouth hanging open and his eyes closed. He snaps out of it when she opens the door and the dome light spills over them. She smirks at him, because he thinks she rocked his world once already, but he's got no idea what she's going to do to him.

"Later, _Puck_." She hits it hard, the satisfying snap of it in her mouth, hops out of the truck, and slams the door behind her. She doesn't look back, but she doesn't have to, because she's hot as hell and he's predictable.

Lauren damn well knows he watches her walk away to the rhythm of the song in her heart.


	4. Chapter 4: Stray Too Far

Chapter Four: Stray Too Far

_I cannot cry  
>Because I know that's weakness in your eyes<br>I'm forced to fake, a smile, a laugh  
>Every day of my life<em>  
>"Because of You" Kelly Clarkson<p>

_September_

No matter how much she wants to sleep, Quinn tends to wake up early. Even on the weekends, which used to be a blessing - it gave her the chance to get her homework out of the way Saturday morning before her social life began, parties with the marching band or the Cheerios and the football team, dates with Finn, shopping with Santana and Brittany, movie nights with Lauren and Tina, Mercedes and Kurt - but now all it does is allow her far too much time to think.

Mercedes sleeps late on Saturdays. Since she gets up early for church on Sundays, it's her only day to sleep in. Quinn tries not to begrudge her that, but sometimes, when she lies awake in bed, alone but for the same pattern of thoughts that chases her no matter how she tries to ignore it, she wants to wake her, to crawl into bed next to her and talk about anything but this.

They're not that kind of friends, though. She's never had that kind of friend. There's too much competition between her and Santana - or there was, at least, in a different life - and Santana has always had Brittany. Ever since she moved in with Mercedes, she's had delightful late night conversations and more laughter than she ever imagined a house could hold, but even on nights when they stay up until dawn, when they finally do sleep, Quinn goes back to her room. (And it is her room now, not Mercedes' brother's. Even when he comes home from college, he crashes on the pull-out couch in the family room. He gives her shit about it, but it's all good natured, and after the first couple times, she started giving as good as she got.)

She's infinitely happier living here than with her parents, but sometimes the loneliness gets to her still.

#

Around eight, she finally gets out of bed. She takes her time with her morning ritual, deep conditioning her hair and rubbing her favorite lime-verbena lotion into every inch of her bare skin. When she's done, she checks on Mercedes, but she's still asleep, and Quinn reluctantly starts in on her homework.

She's not been working long when her phone chimes a text message. It's supposed to be the sound of church bells, but it's tinny and fake. Quinn carefully marks her place in advanced chemistry and picks up her phone. It's from Wes.

_David and I need coffee. Want to join us at the Lima Bean?_

He always spells out each word and uses correct punctuation. After the jumbled messages she gets from nearly everyone else - Finn, in particular, is_horrible_ - she appreciates that perfection. Sometimes she'll take shortcuts when texting anyone else, but for him, she matches his formal style.

_I'll be there in twenty minutes._

#

Wes and David already have a table and three coffees, even though it only takes her fifteen minutes. She smiles when she joins them and accepts the medium skinny caramel latte Wes offers. After the first time they got coffee together last spring - Mr. Schuester had just named her the third drum major, and Wes proclaimed they would take time to get to know each other - he's memorized her order.

"We should discuss our salute." Wes sips his coffee - large drip with five sugars and a dash of milk, he's not the only one who pays attention - and opens the small notebook he carries with him everywhere. He flips to a blank page and clicks his pen, ready to write.

She laughs and shakes back her hair. "Are you really going to take _notes_ about our _salute_? Really?"

David tries to muffle his laugh with his iced tea, but of course it doesn't work. Wes frowns at them each in turn.

"The salute is how we introduce not only ourselves but our entire band to the judges." He taps the end of his pen against the table. "We must be serious about this."

Her coffee is perfect when she takes a drink. She savors it, making Wes wait, and carefully wipes the corner of her mouth with the edge of her thumb. "I agree," she tells him at last. "But I don't know that writing a salute is the best way to create one."

"Oh?" He carefully lines up his pen next to the notebook precisely two inches from the edge of the table and sets his coffee cup right above them. "How would you proceed, junior drum major?"

Wes often sounds cold, though not cruel. He is driven, obsessed with perfection. She appreciates that. He is not an easy person to work with, but Mr. Schuester made the correct choice when he picked his drum majors. David balances Wes well, and Quinn - she doesn't bother to hide her smile, though her mouth hurts with how hard it is.

Quinn will rule the band by herself next year, flanked by two junior drum majors, and she cannot wait.

"I would begin," she tells him, "by sending one of us up into the crow's nest to see how different combinations will look to the judges. Then I would try variations until I found what I thought would help us win captions in showmanship and style." She takes another sip of coffee, meeting his gaze without blinking. "And it is possible I would take notes at that point."

She sees Wes' smile rarely, but it is always worth it. It's slightly crooked, one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other, and he has a bit of a dimple in one cheek. Quinn's smile softens until it no longer feels like a grimace.

"Well then, I suppose we should take these to go." He stands, collecting notepad, pen, and coffee cup. She and David stand too, but in the second it takes them to react, somehow Wes manages to exude impatience.

Laughter bubbles up, but she manages to keep it to a wide, bright smile.

#

Mercedes texts her while they're still working on the salute. She's going to lunch and then shopping with Kurt and Blaine. Quinn considers joining them at the mall, but decides she'd rather not deal with all the classmates she is certain to run into while shopping or all the tiny little shirts she no longer feels she can wear.

Instead, she goes home. (It is home, too, though she can't quite remember when she started referring to it as such. Every time she does, Mercedes beams and frequently links their arms together, squeezing her tight.)

She's just finished her turkey sandwich and started in on making a healthy dessert when her phone chimes a new text. She sets down the knife, wipes fruit juice off her fingers, and checks the message.

_u home? need to talk to u_

Quinn tilts her head. It's impossible to hear tone through a text message, of course, but something in the phrasing sets her off. It doesn't sound like Lauren, but that is whom it is from.

She taps back a quick _Yes, come over_ and returns to her preparations.

Lauren arrives so soon she must have already been on the way over when she texted. _Interesting._ Quinn's in the kitchen finishing the last preparations for her fruit smoothie when she hears the three loud knocks and then the front door opening.

"Kitchen," she calls out and hits the button on the blender. If Lauren says anything, the loud noise covers it. When the fruit and ice and skim milk are crushed and mixed, she turns off the blender, grabs a spoon, and gives it a taste. Sweet and creamy and perfect.

One of the good things about not being back on the Cheerios is that she can still enjoy drinks that are delicious and not just packed full of protein.

Lauren leans against the island, sunglasses pushed up and holding her hair off her face. She fidgets with the knife block in the center of the island, then rearranges the fruit in the bowl, mixing apples and oranges and kiwi together haphazardly. Quinn snorts and knocks her hands away, putting everything back where it should be.

She pours half the smoothie into her glass and holds up the pitcher toward Lauren. "Want one?"

"No thanks."

Her loss. She fills the rest of her glass; there's a little left in the bottom of the pitcher. Since it's just Lauren, she presses her mouth to the edge - it's cold against her lips - and tips back her head, swallowing as fast as she can. Still, some of it smears at the corners of her mouth. She sets down the pitcher and picks up a napkin, demurely wiping it away, as if she hadn't just done the equivalent of drinking out of the carton. Her mother would be scandalized.

Lauren laughs, but it sounds off. Forced. Quinn quickly rinses the pitcher and sets it in the sink. She'll give it a good wash later. Now, she's curious. She digs a straw out of the miscellaneous kitchen items drawer, and she's ready.

She faces Lauren across the island, but Lauren won't look directly at her. Instead she glances at the stove - or maybe the clock display on the oven - the sink, and the floor. "What did you need to talk to me about?"

Lauren looks up at that. "Well," but she stops. "Can we go outside? I want a cigarette."

Quinn raises one eyebrow. (She will never admit how long it took her to perfect that cool, skeptical, slightly judging look. For years, she saw it every day from her mother. It should not have taken that long to master.) Lauren sometimes smokes at parties, but Quinn has _never_ seen her with a cigarette but without a drink.

While she ponders this, Lauren looks away again, this time staring at the bright sunlight coming through the window over the sink. It's framed in white curtains with big yellow flowers on them, and the effect is cheerful. (Startlingly so in the mornings.)

"Fine," she says at last, and leads Lauren to the backyard. There's a big metal swing in the center of the garden - both Mr. and Ms. J love getting their hands dirty - and without discussing it, they sit there.

Lauren pulls a battered black cigarette pack out of her pocket and a square silver lighter. There is something familiar about them, but Quinn can't quite place them. She waits for Lauren to say something, takes a big sip of her smoothie, and pushes her feet firmly against the ground, setting them rocking back and forth a little.

"I," Lauren starts, then stops speaking and starts flicking the lighter open and closed, open and closed, the click of the metal loud in her silence. Quinn glances at her quickly out of the corner of her eye. Lauren's not normally this hesitant, this nervous. That's more a Mercedes thing, for all that she sometimes tries to act like a diva or wants to be respected. (Always she deserves to be respected. Quinn hates that Mercedes doesn't always recognize how amazing she is.)

But Quinn knows Lauren well, and she waits, giving her the time she obviously needs. Eventually, Lauren tries again. "I like someone."

Quinn nods a little, subtly encouraging her. Why in the world is Lauren so nervous about this? It's not the first time she's liked a guy. Out of all of them, Lauren's probably in third place for most hook-ups. (Santana and Brittany take first and second, though no one's sure which girl takes which place.) Lauren liking someone is fun and deserves some giggly gossip, but not these nerves.

Unless.

They'd all kind of figured Kurt was gay long before he came out - except maybe for Mercedes. Despite living with her for most of the last year, Quinn has never asked her if she was really that oblivious or if she crushed so hard on Kurt because he was _safe_ - but when Tina told everyone she was bisexual, it sort of felt like it came out of nowhere. They accepted her, because they loved her and because it was the right thing to do - Quinn prayed a lot after each coming out, torn between what she'd been taught by her parents' church and what she felt for her friends, but in the end, God showed her that His love for everyone was more important than the vicious, judgmental teachings of some of His followers - but it had been unexpected.

Quinn braces herself, because if Lauren is about to come out to her, she wants to be a good friend, worthy of that kind of trust. She chooses her words with care. "Do you want to tell me who it is?"

Lauren shrugs and finally pulls out a cigarette. She turns her head away from Quinn when she lights it, but it has a strong, distinctive smell. A smell she_knows_. A smell that curls through her memories, twining around so many other things: the feel of a worn t-shirt and rough jeans; the too-sweet taste of wine coolers chugged down so fast; the discomfort when she curls up in a truck and cries, her hands spanning the swell of her stomach; the rough scratch of a letterman's jacket against her cheek, the scent of the cigarette lingering in the fabric; and the press of a kiss to the top of her head, a quiet _I promise I'll take care of you both, just please, please keep our daughter_ murmured just for her, begging her even as she shakes her head _no, no, I can't, I won't._

It all flashes through her faster than should be possible. She's already braced, but now it's for destruction, not comfort. The lighter clicks shut - how can they still be in that moment of Lauren lighting her cigarette? It feels like time is hurtling through Quinn's grasp, but she cannot tell if it is forward or back - and Lauren blows out a stream of smoke.

"I hooked up with Puck at Matt's party," Lauren says, and Quinn has never heard her voice shake so. "We want -" Again she stops, takes a drag. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I've been trying to figure out how to say it. And this. I like him." Her voice cracks; she tries again. "I'd like to date him, but I won't unless - I don't want to hurt you."

Quinn can't breathe. She can't feel, either; everything has gone numb, from her fingers to her toes, from her head to heels. The only thing left is the ache in her chest where her heart was once and that empty shudder in her stomach.

They are silent a long time; at least, it feels like a long time, but she can't be certain of anything at the moment. Lauren smokes awhile, staring at the back of the house, and Quinn tries to remember how to make her body function. She's a smart, smart girl; she knows some things happen without thought, but her body seems to have forgotten that scientific fact.

"Quinn?" Lauren asks and looks at her at last.

It is Quinn's turn to stare straight ahead. She grips her cup very tightly indeed, the sides of the glass slippery with condensation.

"I need you to leave." Her voice doesn't shake. She is extraordinarily proud of that fact, considering how long it took her to remember how to push air across her vocal chords and how to form words with her lips and teeth and tongue.

"I'm sorry," Lauren strangles out, but right now, it doesn't matter. Quinn plants her feet and stops the sway of the swing. She stands, not looking at Lauren, focusing instead on each step she needs to take to get to the backdoor.

"Use the gate." Her voice is cool and perfectly calm. She doesn't wait to see if Lauren obeys, but walks carefully to the house. By the time she reaches the door, she's sort of remembered how to breathe again, though it is shallow and her vision blurs. Before she shuts the door behind her, she hears the creak of the gate.

Mercedes is home already, or maybe she comes in hours later. Quinn cannot tell. She is still standing in the kitchen near the back door when Mercedes walks in the front door, calling her name. It takes her awhile to check the kitchen. When she does, she smiles wide enough Quinn can see it despite the wavery vision.

"Girl, where's your phone? I've been trying to get ahold of you. I've got news." It must be good, from how excited she sounds and the way she's bouncing a little, but Quinn has news of her own, news that has ripped through her like a storm and left her strangely broken.

"Quinn?" Mercedes steps toward her, the smile slipping away. "What's wrong?"

Quinn opens her mouth, trying for words, but nothing comes out by a plaintive little gasp. Mercedes is next to her suddenly - or maybe she took her time, Quinn doesn't _know_ - one hand gripping Quinn's elbow tightly. "Sweetie, what is it? Did something happen to your parents? To -" she halfway swallows the word, "Beth?"

Everything tied up so tight inside Quinn breaks free and a silent sob shakes her words loose.

"Lauren's fucking Puck," she manages, the curse foreign on her tongue, and the glass slips from her fingers. It cracks when it hits the floor, sturdy enough it doesn't fully shatter, but smoothie splashes all over her bare feet, sticky and slightly chilled, and then Mercedes hugs her so tight she can't breathe. She stays stiff and still in her arms, but neither does she pull away.


	5. Chapter 5: Where I Can Do No Harm

Chapter Five: Where I Can Do No Harm

_Go ahead, go way low, where I can do no harm  
>Go ahead, go way low in my honey lovin' arms<br>Go ahead, go way low, where I can do no wrong  
>Got you around my finger like a lonely lover's charm (like a lonely lover's charm)<em>  
>"Get Some" Lykke Li<p>

Tina wakes up Friday morning with the most delicious tension warming her all over. During the fall, she's always full of low grade excitement on Fridays, because there's either a football game that night or a competition the next morning – sometimes both – or, at the very least, band parties.

This is different, though, the anticipation rising within her.

Mike isn't her first boyfriend. She's been kissed before. She's hooked up before, though only with one guy and it wasn't very great. Maybe things would have been different with Artie, if he'd listened to her when she asked him to stop saying such misogynistic things or acting all paternalistic toward her, but he didn't, and she broke up with him. She hopes they can eventually be friends.

Now there's Mike. Mike who is so much sweeter than she expected. Mike who's lurked in the background of the football team for years, who tucked himself in the middle of the French horns and rarely said a word. She never really noticed him back then because he didn't want to be noticed, and she is so glad,_so glad_ she had Lauren and Quinn, Mercedes and Kurt. They are all vibrant people, vivacious people, their personalities sometimes overwhelming. Without them, she would have fallen deep into her own shyness, too shaking and nervous to find her own voice.

They didn't save her. She didn't need to be saved. What they did was better. They caught her and braced her until she could rise up, her voice so clear, and find herself in the flip and spin and twist of color guard.

So she thinks she understands a little about Mike. Maybe he's not shy, maybe he's just an introvert, quiet and at peace. He and Matt certainly seem to be tight in their silence. But she knows what it's like to fade into the background, and she knows what it's like to catch all those little racist moments which happen so often in white-washed Lima.

For all that, though, Mike was just another football player until he showed up for color guard tryouts at the end of freshman year with a routine that blew everyone away. He exploded around that gym, making his body bend and pop in ways she couldn't believe was real. His dancing was _phenomenal_, but add a rifle whipping around his hands and there was no way he wasn't in.

They spent sophomore year dancing around each other, literally on the field and figuratively off it, getting to know each other. He was a little shy and very quiet, but she liked that. He was the one who held her hand and sat with her in silence the night she came out.

God, everything hurt then. She was hungover, dehydrated and headachy, and her heart hurt after Kurt's casual biphobia and her own fear, her own anger forcing out words she wasn't sure she was ready to say.

She couldn't go to Lauren, not then. Lauren would rage and rant, her anger vicious and understandable, but Tina wields her own righteous blade of equality. Nor did she need Quinn's cold storm of fury. What she really wanted was Mercedes to pet her hair and hug her and promise everything would be okay, but when it came down to it, no matter how wrong Kurt was or how much she loved Tina, Mercedes would have his back first, and then call him on his shit when they were alone.

But Mike was at that party, and when he found her outside, sitting on the curb, he didn't say anything, just sank down next to her, his feet in the street too, reached over and took her hand, and sat with her in the deep dark night.

She thinks she started loving him then.

That was before summer camp, and how sweet he was with the kids, and how much he made her laugh, and how nice his voice sounded when he opened up and talked about the pressures his parents put on him and how he didn't want the same life they did. That was before he surprised the hell out of her when he told her how much he loved football but how much he hated the popularity game that went with it. That was before she knew how good he tasted, his lips slightly chapped but oh so gentle, and the way he cupped the back of her head as if she was precious.

So yes, Fridays are good days in the fall, but this Friday, she buzzes with excitement for Mike more than anything else.

#

After school, Tina's standing at her locker when Lauren comes up and starts smirking. Tina swings her skirts forward, twisting the heel of one boot against the floor, and raises her eyebrows.

"What's that look about?"

"Tina's gonna get some," Lauren sing-songs.

She nods, fighting against the smile. "That's the truth, and it's going to be _good_."

Lauren laughs, tilting her head back. "Where are you going?"

"Breadstix and-" but Mike's walking toward them and it's a surprise. Lauren quickly spins open her locker, giving them a moment. Tina holds one hand out for Mike, and he takes it, slipping their fingers together and stepping into her space. She turns up her face for a kiss, quick and sweet. It's only a prelude for what comes later, but whole songs bloom on her tongue when she sweeps it along the seam of his mouth.

"God, get a room." Lauren's laughing even as she says it, and she slams her locker shut, the sharp clang lost to the noise around them. Tina turns to look at her, and she leans against the lockers, grinning wider than ever.

She's been like that all day, the sting gone out of her teasing, and if Tina thinks about it too hard, her anger starts to burn. Noah Puckerman is not worth a moment of her girls' time, and yet they keep falling for him. It's like he's got balls of pure gold or some wicked addicting pheromones or something, and she hates it.

But Lauren's eyes are bright, and Tina loves to see her so flirty and giddy and happy. She just wishes someone else was the object of her affections. Anyone else.

"Hey Lauren." Mike ducks his head a little. "Big plans this weekend?"

She shrugs. "Just trying to enjoy our last free time for awhile." She swings her backpack over one shoulder, drumsticks sticking up from an outside pocket. "Gotta hit the library before practice. Have fun, you two." Her words are innocent enough, but her grin devious. Tina rolls her eyes and waves her away.

"I have to run to the store for my mom." Mike squeezes her hand. "Can you give me a ride?"

"I'm all yours." Tina beams up at him, swaying into him a little. He bends his face to hers, kissing her again, sweet kisses that leave her wanting more. She laces her fingers together along the back of his neck, urging him down, urging him closer, closer, closer, and he bends beneath her touch.

She could love this boy of secrets and silence and silky kisses. Happiness blooms inside her, and Tina thinks, oh, she already does.

#

Their talk is light at Breadsticks, not so much superficial, because the things they say mean something to them, but casual, because they are in public and the serious words are for each other alone.

But Mike talks about Coach Beiste and all the changes she's making and how they're actually starting to feel good, he can't wait for their first game next week. Tina grabs his hand and squeezes his fingers, equal parts amused by the idolization in his tone and giddy over the thought that maybe, maybe they will march for a winning football team for once.

Tina gushes about the new Angry Birds edition for Rio and how the shriek of the monkeys when she fails makes her want to throw her phone against the wall. She shows him the rough edge where it slipped from her fingers in the parking lot, and it's a good thing it did, because she probably would have thrown it on that final boss level.

Mike invites her swimming in the morning, with him and Matt, and something warm unfurls in her chest, because she knows their time is important, just like the time she spends with Lauren is precious and they carve it out no matter how busy their schedules.

She says yes, of course, because there's no way she can turn down the chance to see those abs of his in the sun.

Dinner goes like that, give and take, back and forth, and Tina's cheeks hurt, she's smiling so hard.

When they're done, finally, _finally_, she can surprise him.

#

Mike heads toward her car when they leave, but she stops him, wrapping her hand around his wrist. "Close your eyes," she orders, and he does so without question. That is just delightful, how fast he responds, and she beams at him for a second even though he can't see it.

Even though he's not supposed to be able to see it, but he smiles back. Maybe it's reflex. Maybe he just smiles around her. Maybe he's cheating. She rolls her eyes and extracts a black scarf from her purse. It's light weight enough it won't make him sweat or anything, but heavy duty enough if she folds it right, he won't be able to see through it. She tested it on Lauren to make sure. Lauren, unsurprisingly, is very bad at taking directions when trying to walk wearing a blindfold.

Odds are good Mike will be better, and what she wants is just around the corner anyway.

He ducks when she presses down on his shoulder, and doesn't flinch when she slips the scarf over his eyes and pulls the ends around behind his head.

"This is new," he murmurs, a dark note to his voice that makes her fingers shake. She manages to tie it off anyway, then slips her arm through his. They walk around the corner together, but the second she opens the door, she realizes she should have brought earplugs too.

The clang of machines and chime of games and laughter is loud. Mike quivers a little, one hand brushing the blindfold, but he doesn't remove it.

Good.

The machines she wants are just inside the door, near the window. She plants him in front of them with a quick, "Stay put," and quickly gets a cup of quarters. He stays where she puts him, but when she gets back, he has one hand on the balance bar, and she's pretty sure he knows what she's doing.

Surprise or not, they'll still have fun.

Tina sets down the cup of quarters and reaches for the blindfold. It flutters against her fingertips as she gets it free. Mike blinks, but doesn't look around; his attention is all for her.

"Mike Chang," she rises up on her toes, "will you dance with me?"

He cups her face, his thumbs pressed against her cheeks, and kisses her so sweetly, his lips blooming soft against hers.

Then he kicks her ass nine times out of ten at Dance Dance Revolution, but she's way too happy to care.

#

"You want to come over?" Tina asks, her tone carefully casual. Her hair is pulled back into a low knot, damp and cool against the back of her neck. They've been swimming for hours, Matt and Mike and Tina, and she's pleasantly worn out, hungry, and thirsty. Matt has plans later, but he smiled at her when he left, and he actually said more than two words while they swam, so it feels like progress. She glances sideways at Mike, and then quickly away. "My parents are out of town for the night."

Mike is quiet a moment, but he reaches over and takes her hand. His fingers are callused when he strokes them along her skin and it makes her shiver. "Yes," he says at last, his voice low. "I'd like that."

She plans to shower as soon as she gets home, let Mike have the run of the family room, but the second the front door shuts behind them, she turns, keys still in hand, and grabs him, pulling him in for a kiss. He goes willingly, wrapping her arms around her, and does even flinch when she accidentally scrapes the keys along the side of his neck.

They smell like lake water and sweat and sunscreen, but she doesn't care, not when she can slip her tongue into his mouth, not when he presses against her, the weight of his body carrying her down the hall. The keys slip from her fingers, and she lets them fall.

She stops them long enough to tug Mike's shirt over his head and leave it in the doorway to the living room. He's working his fingers along the waistband of her skirt when they hit the couch, and she scoots up onto the arm, because she doesn't need to get naked, not when she's just wearing bikini bottoms beneath it. She wraps her legs around him, pressing her heels to the backs of his thighs and pushing him against her until he figures it out.

He drops his head to her should with a groan, thrusting forward two, and then he puts a little space between them. She's balance precariously, but hangs on to the back of the couch so she can watch him work her skirt up her thighs. He sneaks little glances up at her face as he does so, but mostly he watches as he bares her before him.

It's a trick, getting enough leverage to cant up her hips so he can peel off the bottom half of her bathing suit, but then it's on the hardwood – god, she hopes it's not wet enough to leave a mark – and even as she reaches for him, intending to pull him into a kiss, he drops to his knees, takes a deep breath, and buries his face between her thighs.

Tina _keens_, a sound she's never heard herself make before, but then she's never felt quite like this. Masturbation is good, and she has some excellent toys, but his mouth is warm and his tongue agile, and when he pushes two fingers inside, Tina finally, _finally_ understands why it's sometimes call the little death, because she can't breathe and she's pretty sure her heart is about to beat right out of her chest.

Then Mike just keeps going, mouth and tongue and fingers. He shakes his head back and forth a little, and it should feel weird, but it doesn't. She clutches the back of the couch with one hand and the back of his head with the other and she really might be dying.

When he finally stops, when she finally comes down, her throat aches like she's been screaming the entire time, but unlike the concerts she loves, she has no idea what she's been saying. Mike rises slowly, obviously stiff, and wipes wetness from his face with the back of his hand. Wipes _her_ from his face, and Tina grins at him, because she feels so good and she had no idea he had all that in him.

"Come here, you." She pulls him between her legs. His swim trunks are smooth, but even they're too rough for her sensitive cunt. He helps her push them down out of the way, and then he's back, pressing his dick against her. He shudders, and she reaches up to stroke back his hair. "Condoms in my room."

"Okay." He manages to grit it out, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't push inside her, either, just rubs along the length of her, and then fists his hand around his dick and jerks once, twice – he starts to back up, but she catches him with her heels and holds him in place – and he comes across her thighs.

"Sorry." It comes out strangled, and he tries again. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

"It's fine." She presses her feet against him and holds out her hand; he hesitates a moment more, and then finally takes it, even though that smears come across her palm. His, hers, they're mixed together and her body feels so good.

Then her back twinges, reminding her she's really not in the most comfortable position. She straightens up that last bit and kisses him.

#

She lets Mike shower first. Tina puts together a load of laundry, but rinses his swim trunks and tosses them in the dryer so he'll have something to wear when he's clean. Once he's done in the bathroom, she tells him to order food and takes her time washing and conditioning her hair.

By the time she's dressed in another black skirt and a thin gray tank top, casual, comfortable clothes because she plans on curling up with Mike and watching movies until she has to take him home, the food's arrived.

Mike has sodas, paper plates, and big napkins to go with their pizza, but first thing he does is point at her purse.

"You're phone's been going off every thirty seconds," he says. She thinks he's exaggerating, but when she checks it, if he is, it's not by much. There are missed calls and texts and more missed calls. She starts with the texts, most recent first, threads from Mercedes and Kurt demanding to know where the hell she is and why she's not answering her phone and she needs to come over right the fuck now and bring ice cream and bacon, they're having an emergency.

For a second, Tina forgets the secrets she knows, and she's terrified Quinn is pregnant _again_.

Then she gets to the text from Lauren, the first in the bunch. The only one from her, and all it says is: _i need you_.

She's dialing Lauren's number even as she hears two loud bangs on the front door. It swings open a second later, and as fast as Tina's scrambling into the hallway, Lauren's inside before she gets there and slams the door shut so hard the glass rattles. She'd look like normal to anyone else, but Tina knows her well enough to catch the twitch of her eyelid, the quiver of her jaw.

"I told Quinn," Lauren says. "She hates me." The way her voice cracks breaks Tina's heart. She opens her arms, the _I warned you_ dying on her lips, and Lauren lurches into her.

Tina stays silent, and strokes her hair until she's calm.


End file.
